


Elementary 13: The Baker Street Years IV (1888-1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary: The Complete Cases of Castiel Novak (and Dean Winchester) [13]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Gay Sex, Kidnapping, London, Love Confessions, M/M, Murder, Poisoning, References to Clue | Cluedo, Revenge, Theft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-19 19:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4758323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Case 54. MY BLOODY VALENTINE (formerly 'The Boscombe Valley Mystery')</b><br/><b>Case 55. SLASH FICTION (formerly 'The Man With The Twisted Lip')</b><br/>Case 56. ABOUT A BOY (The Dramatic Affair Of Colonel Warburton's Madness)<br/>Case 57. SEX AND VIOLENCE (The Unfortunate Madame Montpensier)<br/>Case 58. THE USUAL SUSPECTS (The Case Of The Bishopsgate Jewel)<br/>Case 59. DEATH'S DOOR (The Case Of Vigor, The Hammersmith Wonder)<br/><b>Case 60. MUMMY DEAREST (formerly 'The Adventure of The Engineer's Thumb')</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

I did not of course know it at the time, but the seemingly trivial case that took us down to the Boscombe Valley in rural Dorsetshire searching for a 'lost' bride was our first encounter, albeit an indirect one, with that truly vile excuse for a human being, 'Doctor' Kurt Metatron. It may be a doctor's sworn oath to first do not harm, but for what he put Cas and me through in the years that followed, I wished – too late – that I had let him die when I had had that one chance. Regretfully I did the right thing, and I paid a heavy price.

Seven cases are covered herein, three of which were previously published. It was a relatively happy time for me, as I watched Cas move slowly clear of the shadow of the dark events at the end of 'Eighty-Eight, even if my own life suffered its own turmoil caused by a ghost from the past. I little knew at this relatively happy time that what had begun in that little Dorsetshire valley would end, far too soon, in my losing the man I held dear. My beloved Cas.


	2. Case 54: My Bloody Valentine (1888-1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Boscombe Valley Mystery'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: References to a faked suicide

Foreword: Readers will remember my original rendition of this case as a rare failure on behalf of my brilliant friend, at least in that events prior to his involvement in the case rendered it unsolvable. In fact it was a success, for reasons that could not be made clear at the time. More ominously, it was our first, albeit distant brush with the man who would wreck my life, Doctor Kurt Metatron, and who was the driving force behind the Disparagement Society mentioned herein.  
   
I  
   
It is strange, but the year of 'Eighty-Eight was actually the first Christmas that Cas and I had spent together in Baker Street. On both the previous two years after his return from wherever he had been for those three long years, he had been summonsed to spend time with his mother who, I already knew, was unacquainted with the word 'no'. Although he was to be spared this year, I myself nearly had cause to be away when, a few days before Christmas Day, I had finally become an uncle, with Dean Joscelyn Winchester entering the world (a full month early, which he clearly did not get from his moose of a father!), and even though I had been invited for the season, I did not want to deprive the happy couple of time with their newborn baby. Though I may or may not have shed a tear about my name being continued for a new generation.

Cas, thankfully, was fully recovered from his recent brush with death and the subsequent depression of his involvement with the Ripper case. He told me that he hated Christmas and flatly refused to help decorate the tree I purchased, so it served him right that I managed to find a tan-coated angel with blue eyes to go at the top, where he could not reach. He had pouted at me for that, but there was no force in it. It was a happy time.  
   
We celebrated the arrival of 'Eighty-Nine together, and I remember wondering what cases it would bring for him to solve. I hoped none would be of the sort he had had of late. I could not know that, over the next two and a half years, a shadow would slowly cast itself across our lives, and eventually all but destroy them.  
   
+~+~+

London in winter is not for the faint-hearted, and the New Year arrived with a vicious snowstorm that all but paralyzed the greatest city in the world for a few days. The surgery had been forced to close for a time, the road past its door resembling parts of Siberia, though I had been asked by telegram to go out to a small number of clients, all of whom I managed to reach. And of course, I had my own human heater to look forward to every time I returned to Baker Street, which considerably improved my mood that cold season.  
   
It was early one Wednesday morning, fortunately whilst the surgery was still closed, when the inaptly named Mr. Salerio Merriweather called. Not just because the weather was far from merry, but neither was the man himself. A beta, he was about forty, corpulent, balding and he reeked of cologne so much, I was afraid letting him near the fire might end in him going up in flames. Though his brusque and abrupt manner soon had me considering that such an event may, in the circumstances, not have been unwelcome.  
   
“I demand that you come down to Dorsetshire with me at once!” he almost shrieked. “I have been most horribly betrayed and misused, and you are the man to put things to rights!”  
   
If he was trying to persuade Cas to take on his case, he was not exactly going the right way about it. My friend caught my disapproving look, and I bit back a chuckle.  
   
“My services are ever in demand”, Cas said airily. “Perhaps it might suit if you explained exactly who you are and what you require, sir, before I cross several counties on your behalf.”  
   
Our visitor drew himself up to his full height (which was less than either of us), and looked imperiously at us both.  
   
“I, sirs, am Mr. Salerio Hayland Merriweather!”  
   
Clearly that announcement was meant to incite awe and acknowledgement, rather than the puzzled silence it actually evinced. That in turn seemed to irritate him even more. He sat down heavily in the chair without actually being invited, and frowned at us.  
   
“I have been most cruelly abused, gentlemen, and it must be corrected. My wife has left me!”  
   
“But you are not married”, Cas observed, and I belatedly noticed the lack of a wedding-ring. Our guest snorted.  
   
“I arranged my wedding through the Disparagement Society – they deal with women who are wealthy but unable to take control of their own money – and purchased my future wife for… well, it was a considerable sum. And now she has disappeared. You must find her!”  
   
I snorted in disdain at the idea of actually buying someone in this day and age. The slave-trade had been consigned to the history books two decades before my birth, and the British Navy was doing sterling work eradicating it from less enlightened parts of the world, of which the Empire could be truly proud. Cas stood and frowned at the man for some time before answering.  
   
“Very well.”

I stared at my friend in shock. What on earth...?  
   
“Please tell us of the facts of this case”, Cas went on, seemingly unaware of my reaction.  
   
I was so shocked by his accepting the case of this obnoxious fellow – visitors less rude than this had been told to leave in no uncertain terms, and in more than one case forcibly removed – that I barely managed to make any notes. Which was unfortunate, as Mr. Merriweather spoke quickly.  
   
“The girl – Heather something or other – was due to arrive to my house, Bosbury Manor, yesterday. She was to come on the evening train from Waterloo to Templecombe, and then change to the Somerset and Dorset line as far as Tally-Ho! Junction. The estate runs its own private railway from there down the Boscombe Valley to the town of Bosbury.”  
   
“I see”, Cas said. “Pray continue.”  
   
“A member of the Society was to accompany her, but once they reached the junction, disaster struck. There was something of an altercation on the platform, and her companion ended up being struck without the least provocation by another passenger. By the time he had recovered, the branch-line train was pulling out of the station, with the lady on it.”

“Was he certain the lady was on the train?” Cas put in.

“She did not alight; the guard told him.”

“Please describe this railway to me.”

“It connects with the Somerset and Dorset main line at Tally-Ho! Junction, which is actually in the town of Boshampton. The train calls at Boscombe Valley Halt, then Marton Manor Halt, where my carriage was waiting to meet her. The next and final stop is the town of Bosbury.”

“So it is possible she could have alighted at Boscombe Valley Halt?” Cas asked. Our visitor shook his head.

“I checked with the stationmaster there, and only one person alighted from that train that evening”, our guest said crossly. “A local man, known to him. And once I received the hasty telegram that her useless companion dispatched from the telegraph office in Boshampton, I ordered the train to be held at Bosbury, and had it thoroughly searched. There was no sign of her! She has vanished into thin air, Mr. Novak! Vanished! And I demand your immediate attention to this most important matter.”  
   
“I shall definitely visit you in Dorsetshire on Friday”, Cas said. Noting the man’s obvious outrage at the delay, he smoothly continued. “I am finishing up a matter for the government today and tomorrow. I would presume you would not require me to tell Her Majesty that she should wait?”  
   
Because I was nearly thirty-seven years old, I did not point a finger at our visitor and yell 'Hah!' at the top of my voice. Though I was strongly tempted. Mr. Merriweather reddened.  
   
“I shall expect you first thing”, he insisted.  
   
“That will not happen”, Cas said. He continued before our guest could bluster again. “The purpose of the visit will of course to be to retrace the steps of the lady’s journey. For that I must obviously travel at the same time as the train she herself took. The doctor and I may spend some days in the area subsequent to our trip, and we shall of course inform you of any developments. We shall find our own lodgings, as I keep somewhat irregular hours and would not wish to incommode your staff.”  
   
II  
   
After what seemed like an eternity, our unwelcome guest left, and I opened the window to help remove the smell of his cologne. I was still frankly astonished that Cas had taken the case of this obnoxious excuse for a human being, but on reflection I thought that there must be a reason to it.  
   
“I did not know you had a case with the government?” I asked curiously.  
   
“I do not”, he said. “But the Disparagement Society is something I have had my eye on for some little time. This may be a chance to further my knowledge of them.”  
   
“Why?” I asked.  
   
“Balthazar became curious, and tried to track down the real owners”, he told me. “Even he gave up when it became one false front after another. It is not just something so horribly outdated as that set of beliefs should be allowed in our modern city, but my instincts tell me that this is worth investigating.”  
   
“So that is why you are looking into that awful man’s case”, I smiled. “I thought there had to be a reason.”  
   
“Always the man with faith in me, doctor”, he smiled. “Let us hope I can justify it, and find the lost lady before the Society - or worse, Mr. Salerio Hayland Merriweather - catches up with her.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
Cas spent much of the next day with his brother Balthazar, finding out what little he could about the Disparagement Society. Apparently the elder Novak was confident that the government would soon be able to close down its operations, as they played on a legal loophole that was about to be closed by a bill currently going through parliament, which had the support of all major parties. He also discovered that the lady’s name was Heather Rosewood, the daughter and sole heiress to a considerable fortune from her late father, who had been in the tea trade and had owned a considerable estate in the counties of Durham and Westmorland. Her uncle Mr. Jacob Burns had been given control of the estate until she reached twenty-one in a year and a half's time, and had arranged her marriage to Mr. Merriweather for a considerable sum, despite the prospective husband being over double the lady's tender age.  
   
“There is something else of interest”, Cas said, his blue eyes twinkling mischievously. “Miss Rosewood was said to be enamoured of a young buck by the name of Harry Percy, and those affections were said to be returned, but as he had not a bean to his name, her ‘guardian’ went for the moneyed option.”  
   
I could hear the quotation marks. I smiled.  
   
“Anyway”, Cas continued, “Mr. Percy has recently decamped to Poole, in the same county as his vanished lady. I am sure that either or both the Society and her uncle are keeping a close eye on him, just in case.”  
   
“A lady vanishes”, I said softly. “I went to the library and obtained the timetables for you, as you asked.”  
   
“Thank you”, he smiled. “And tomorrow we must to Waterloo, and points west. Oh to be young and in love!”  
   
I laughed, though I remembered that my thirty-seventh birthday was fast approaching – too fast - and I was getting ever further from being 'young'. Then again, at least Cas would turn thirty-five this year.

It was just not fair that he was always at least two and a half years behind me.  
   
+~+~+

One of my many failings as a human being is a tendency to over-think things, and our current case caused me to take a long and concerned look at my relationship with Cas. It really was a marriage (and I flinched as I used the M-word, despite our rings) of unequals. Not only was Cas absurdly wealthier than me, he was smarter, stronger, and far, far cleverer. I knew that his family, fearing a complete breach with him, had backed away from trying to persuade him to find a nice girl or omega and settle down, but I still felt depressingly unworthy of the great man. I said nothing about this to him, of course, but as usual he knew.

That night Cas was in a romantic mood, which meant lots of cuddling with only a remote chance of coupling. I was fine with that; to feel that great heart beating against my own was one of the greatest feelings in existence. He nuzzled his naked body up against mine, and I grabbed him to me, as if I could always keep him here, protected from the slings and arrows (and bullets) of the world outside.

“I took something of yours”, he whispered. We were far away from anyone who might hear us, but we always kept our voices quiet, as it gave a conspiratorial air to our time together, us away from the world.

“All I have is yours, up to and including my heart”, I told him. “You know that. What was it?”

“I took a pair of your bootlaces before I went out today”, he said. “I replaced them, so you can still wear your boots.”

I looked down at the impossible hair beneath my chin, and pulled him up until he was facing me.

“Why?” I asked curiously.

He did not reply, but reached into the bedside table draw and pulled something out. Then he sat back between my legs, pulled me up until we were facing each other on the bed. He seemed oddly nervous, which worried me.

“Cas?” I asked.

He took my hand and opened it, then placed something in it. I stared in confusion. It looked like a pair of bracelets, made out of.....

“I took a pair of my own bootlaces, and went to that shop next to the general store”, he said. “There is a lady there who makes bracelets out of all sorts of things. I wanted her to make two, one each out of one set of your laces, and one of mine.”

I looked at the bracelets. They had been professionally done; I would not have known that they had been made out of shoe-laces had Cas not told me. A suspicion was dawning in my mind, and he quickly confirmed it.

“I know that you sometimes have a low opinion of yourself, Dean”, he said, his voice now sombre. “I had these made out of our possessions, entwined with each other, to represent how you are entwined in my heart, and that I could not imagine myself without you. I love you more than life itself, and it pains me when you think ill of yourself.”

I blinked back the tears in my eyes, but could not stop one from slowly trickling down my cheek. He stopped it with his finger, smiled at me, and put his own bracelet on first before clasping mine around my wrist. I stared at it in silent awe. Of course we had the rings Cas had gotten in Verona that time, but we were of course unable to wear those on our ring-fingers. Nothing could make this moment better.

“Now”, he said, and in an instant his voice had dropped over an octave. “Sex!”

All right, maybe there was something that could make this moment better.

Oh boy, there was!

III  
   
The following afternoon saw the two of us standing on a little halt in the middle of the Dorsetshire countryside, the sharp January wind trying to blow straight through us. The village of Templecombe had two stations; the one we had recently alighted at on the London to Exeter main line of the London and South Western Railway Company (I had been grateful for a comfortable first-class seat, as I was still sore after last night!), and our much smaller halt on the Somerset and Dorset Joint Railway, which connected Bournemouth to Bath and other Somersetshire towns. It was bitingly cold in the January wind, and after only a few minutes a surprisingly well-kept train in the blue livery of the SDJR rumbled in from the south, only to draw into the opposite platform.  
   
“Sorry, doctor”, Cas said with a grin. “That is the northbound train. We are heading south, towards Bournemouth.”  
   
Fortunately only a few moments later another train rumbled in from the north, and we boarded just as the other train set off.”  
   
“This section is single-line only”, I observed.  
   
“The railway was formed by a merger of two separate companies”, Cas said. “I shall be interested to examine the layout of the junction where Miss Rosewood was parted from her guide for the journey; I would have asked Mr. Merriweather, but like you, I did not wish to prolong his visit any more than was necessary. Fortunately we have some little time there, as the branch train will wait for the next northbound train as well as our own.”  
   
It was about twenty-five minutes later that we reached the charmingly-named Tally-Ho! Junction which, as Mr. Merriweather had said, served the fair-sized village of Boshampton. Cas explained to me that his research had showed that the Merriweathers owned most of the land around here, and that the original railway builders had wanted to build through Bosbury and then almost double back to Boshampton, but our client’s late father had not wanted a main line through his home town, so a branch had been built instead. I wondered if the townsfolk would come to regret such a move; the map of England had been changed in so many places by the advent of the railway, towns that missed out losing badly to those the railway reached first.  
   
Tally-Ho! Junction was a large station, consisting of two platforms as well as a goods yard. The exit to Boshampton was through the station building on platforms one and two; platform one was a bay siding currently full of trucks. There was a footbridge connecting it to the island platforms three and four, for northbound and southbound mainline trains respectively. Cas asked around, and we were fortunate to find one of the porters who had been there during the fracas around the lady.  
   
“Proper lady, she was”, he said with a smile. “Not like the runt she had with her. An alpha, I think, though a poor excuse for one. He'd got the lady onto the branch train, then turned to get his bag – apparently I weren't good enough to handle it for him, would you believe? - and nearly knocked this young alpha over. The chap grabbed onto him and demanded an apology, but when the old guy wouldn't give him one, he did.”

“Did what?” Cas asked.

“Gave him one!” the porter grinned. “Right in the kisser! Knocked him clean out, too. Good left hook for a doctor.

“How do you know he was a doctor?” I asked.

“Had a medical bag, like the one you're carrying”, the porter said. “He tried to bring him round with some sort of smelling-salts, and it worked eventually, but by that time the local train was leaving the station. It was a laugh; the old guy tried to run after it, then he screamed that we would have to get the train back somehow – hah! - and finally he demanded to know where the nearest telegraph office was.”  
   
“Can you tell me any more about the doctor?” Cas asked.  
   
“Not a local”, the porter said firmly. “Twenties, not more than thirty. Dark-haired and hadn't shaved, average height, and his ticket was from Poole. Guy was calm even though he was so mad at being bumped.”  
   
Cas thanked him, and a coin changed hands. I waited until the porter had gone before speaking.  
   
“Mr. Percy?” I asked. Cas shook his head.  
   
“The description I was given of his is that he is blond and six foot two”, he said. “He could dye his hair, but I doubt that even a master of disguise could suddenly lose six inches in height. Ah, I see the northbound train approaching. We had better get onto our little branch-line train, if we are to follow Miss Rosewood’s movements exactly.”  
   
We clambered into the first-class coach, and were sat down just as the other train pulled in alongside us. We had to wait a few minutes for any connecting passengers to cross the footbridge, and our train and the two others left almost together, though our line quickly diverged and curved back to pass beneath the main line through the arches of a viaduct.  
   
It was about five minutes later that we stopped at Boscombe Valley Halt, which served the villages of Bosham St. Peter and Bosham All Saints. Cas and I watched the platform, and only one person got off there, a lady with a basket. Then we continued to our destination, Marton Manor Halt, which lay in the valley between Marton village on one side and the manor house on the other. The village was small and had only one inn, the Fighting Cocks. They did not normally offer rooms during winter, but as I had expected, were willing to accommodate us. Ironically our twin bed room had a view across the valley to the manor house, an ominous reminder of our client.  
   
“I shall pay a courtesy visit tonight, to let him know we have come”, Cas said. “You can take the time to pump the locals for knowledge of the man, and see if they know anything about the disappearance of the lady.”  
   
I was thankful that I was to be spared at least one encounter with Mr. Merriweather, and smiled at my friend in gratitude.  
   
IV  
   
We had arranged for a light breakfast to be served in our room the following morning. The landlord himself brought it up, along with some unwelcome news.  
   
“His lordship is downstairs, demanding to see you”, he said, his face clearly indicating that he too was not overly fond of our client. “I told him that gentlemen do not get disturbed at this time of a morning unless the place is on fire, so he is champing at the bit.”  
   
And you enjoyed telling him that, I thought but did not say. Though I may have let slip a slight smile.  
   
We finished our breakfast and made ourselves presentable – I noted that neither of us was exactly hurrying – before making our way downstairs to meet our client who, predictably, was less than happy at being kept waiting.  
   
“You must move quickly, sirs”, he insisted before we had even sat down. “The Society sent me a most alarming telegram this morning, to the effect that their agent monitoring that young buck Percy had boarded a train headed towards Bournemouth this morning! He could be here in barely an hour!”  
   
“Calm yourself, Mr. Merriweather”, Cas said placidly. “If the doctor and I hire a carriage, we can easily intercept the man at Blandford. Though I doubt he would be foolish enough to lead a pursuer straight to the lady.”  
   
The man pouted, but I could see that Cas’ point had struck home.  
   
“Though I should caution you against hoping to recover the lady”, Cas went on. “This Mr. Harry Percy sounds desperate. I do not know what lengths he would go to in order to frustrate your pursuit.”  
   
“You think he might harm the lady rather than hand her over?” he asked doubtfully.  
   
“Or worse”, Cas said ominously. “I have put a certain course of inquiry under way today which, if it yields a result, may have information for you tomorrow. In the meantime, the doctor and I must away if we are to reach our destination.”  
   
He looked annoyed that he would be unable to badger us any further, but he was clearly torn between that and our failing to intercept his rival, and he eventually nodded, departing with a grunt.  
   
“I have had less pleasant clients”, Cas said after he had gone. “Few, though.”  
   
I smiled, and went to secure a carriage.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Cas took the reins, and I soon realized we were heading in the wrong direction. We skirted Boshampton on its northern side, and not long afterwards Cas turned us into the yard for Kilminster and Newton-on-the-Moor, the station north of Tally-Ho! Junction. I looked at him in surprise.  
   
“I am expecting to meet a passenger off the Bournemouth train”, he said. “Indeed, by the white smoke I can make out, we are only just in time.”  
   
I withheld my curiosity, and soon the train pulled into the station. Six people came through the station building, but Cas evinced no interest in any of them. Then a seventh appeared, a tall flaxen-haired young alpha pushing a bicycle. Cas sprung down and went to meet him.  
   
“Greetings”, he beamed. “I believe I have the pleasure of addressing Mr. Harry Percy?”  
   
The young man looked at him uncertainly. He was a few inches taller than Cas and muscular for his age, though I was certain that in any fight there would be only one winner. He nodded.  
   
“Then perhaps we may have the pleasure of taking you to your destination”, Cas said. “And do not look so worried. If I had been going to turn you over to Mr. Merriweather, I would have done so by now.”  
   
The man silently got into the back of our cart along with his bicycle, and Cas clicked the reins.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We drew up ten minutes later at a small cottage that was slightly detached from the main village. Mr. Percy looked uncertainly at us both.  
   
“Sirs”, he began.  
   
“You have twenty minutes”, Cas said quietly. “The next Bath train is the one which will connect at Templecombe with the Plymouth express. In light of your circumstances, I shall presume that you would not wish to delay.”  
   
He nodded, and got down from the cart, making his way up the path to the cottage.  
   
“What on earth is going on?” I blurted out.  
   
He smiled at my bluntness.  
   
“We have sufficient time for me to elucidate you”, he said, “although I will understand if the deceit arising from this matter is more than an English doctor feels up to handling…..”  
   
“Cas!”  
   
He chuckled at my frustration, and I poked him in my annoyance. He gave me a Sammy-esque hurt puppy look, and I sighed in resignation.  
   
“Very well”, he said. “Several people were in on this ramp, which has been exceptionally well-planned. I am only thankful that Mr. Percy shows no inclination towards a criminal life, or he might be keeping me very busy!”  
   
“He knows that Miss Rosewood will be guarded by a society member all the way from her home in County Durham to Dorsetshire, so he plans accordingly. I would wager that one of his friends, selected for his dissimilarity to the man himself, was the one who engineered the contretemps at Tally-Ho! Junction.”

“Clever”, I muttered, looking towards the cottage. I hoped Mr. Percy would be quick and not be tempted to start anything whilst we were waiting. Though if I had Cas alone in a country cottage.....

He smiled at me, and I had the certain feeling that he knew as to which gutter my thoughts had scrambled back into. Though it was blatantly unfair of him to place that had on my thigh.

“Mr. Percy's accomplice strikes the guardian down”, he said, “although it is not smelling salts that he holds under his nose but something to keep him unconscious until the train has left. Once this happens, he allows his victim to come to, and of course the first thing he sees is the train pulling away into the distance.

“With the lady on it”, I smiled.

“No.”  
   
“What?” I asked, now totally confused.

V  
   
“You will remember from the layout of the junction station that the northbound train came through on platform three, whilst the branch train was next to it on platform two”, he explained. “Once her guardian is down for the count, she reaches across, opens the door to the carriage in the next train, opens her own door and simply steps across. She is greeted at the next station, Kilminster, by her lover, who has arranged the whole thing.”  
   
“Wait a minute”, I objected, “I thought you said he was being watched.”  
   
“Mr. Percy turned that to his advantage”, Cas said. “At a time when it would be expected, another confederate leaves his lodging-house in Poole dressed in his clothes. Once the pursuit has been drawn away, it is easy for him to do the same journey, whilst his friend probably has an excellent day out in Bournemouth or Southampton, leading his pursuers a merry dance.”  
   
I frowned.  
   
“Mr. Merriweather”, I said heavily.  
   
To my surprise, Cas chuckled.  
   
“That is where the deceit comes in”, he said. He passed me a folded sheet of paper, and I read its contents.  
   
God, the man was good!  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Well?”  
   
I decided I had been wrong. It was possibly to dislike the pug-faced obnoxious little creep of a man even more. Cas shook his head.  
   
“It is bad news”, he said. “But it could be infinitely worse.”  
   
That clearly unsettled the man.  
   
“How?” he demanded.  
   
“Miss Heather Rosewood died last week”, Cas said.  
   
Mr. Merriweather snorted his disbelief.  
   
“Nonsense!” he snapped. “Why, the Society assured me that she reached the junction only last Tuesday!”  
   
“That”, Cas said heavily, “was not Miss Heather Rosewood. I cannot divulge the lady’s name, except to say she was a friend of your intended bride.”

“But damnation, healthy young women don’t just go and die!” the man snapped.  
   
“Suicide”, Cas muttered, so quietly I barely heard him. Clearly our client did, because his face went deathly white.  
   
“You are joking!”  
   
!I wish I was”, Cas said, handing him over an official-looking piece of paper. “That is the death certificate. I checked to make sure, but it is quite genuine. In the circumstances, you would not of course want me to pursue this matter any further.”  
   
“Circumstances?” The man looked confused.

Cas looked away, apparently embarrassed.  
   
“If this were to become public knowledge, sir”, he said carefully, “it might be said by certain ignorant persons that the situation regarding her marriage caused her to take her own life. Of course, I am sure most people would not be so coarse or uncouth, but alas, the newspapers today…. well, they do tend to cater to the lowest common denominator. Your reputation could be seriously damaged.”  
   
Mr. Merriweather nodded frantically.  
   
“Yes”, he said, clearly shocked. “Yes, I see that. Er, the young buck?”  
   
“I understand Mr. Harry Percy has decided to quit England for a life in the United States”, Cas said. “He has nothing to keep him here any more.”  
   
“No. No, indeed. Well, thank you for your time, gentlemen. I am sure you did your best. Yes, thank you.”  
   
Cas bowed us out, and we made a silent getaway to the local halt, where we boarded the little valley train. Two stops later, we were back at Tally-Ho! Junction, the scene of the ‘crime’. I noted that Cas whispered something to the local train’s guard which made the old man’s face break out in a smile, and before we were out he was already talking excitedly with the driver and fireman, before rushing off into the station building.  
   
“I hope those two are happy together”, I said, as we waited for our own train to Templecombe and the connection to London.  
   
“Happiness cannot be guaranteed”, Cas said. “But they love each other, and that is a start.”

Indeed, I thought. Love.

+~+~+

It was just my luck that, even though I was on a short break, I managed to run into our next case and drag it to Cas' attention....


	3. Case 55: Slash Fiction (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Man With The Twisted Lip'.

I

I ended our last story with Cas and I at Tally-Ho! Junction, on our way back to dear old London Town. I should perhaps have mentioned that the weather was decidedly on the turn, and the weak winter sun we had enjoyed on leaving the valley had already vanished beneath a heavy veil of cloud. By the time we reached Templecombe for the London train, Lord Winter was not so much falling on as bodily throwing himself at England, the country disappearing under several inches of snow in a matter of hours. Fortunately the railway companies were used to such eventualities, and although our journey back to Baker Street was longer than the one down, we still made it home safely, if decidedly chilled. And if I spent much of that evening cuddling a certain blue-eyed genius, well, it was mainly for the warmth he always generated. 

Mainly-ish.

It was thoughts of home that filled my mind in those cold winter days, as my brother and sister-in-law were again pressing me to visit them and my new nephew in their home in Berwick-on-Tweed, some three hundred miles away to the north. My thirty-seventh birthday was, as I have mentioned, approaching rather more quickly than I would have liked, and whilst Sammy was happily settled in his own house, I was still in lodgings with my friend. Yet the recent Christmas, clear of the shadows of recent events, had been the happiest one since when my dear mother was alive, and somehow I just could not envisage coming back to any house that didn’t have a Cas in it. This was my life, and I liked it.

My having finally decided to bite the bullet and travel, my trip north had to be postponed for a short time, first until after the snow had melted and then when Cas caught a chill which rapidly worsened. Though I did not at any time fear for his life, I had no hesitation in sending an immediate telegram off to Sammy, telling him I could not come until the following week at best. I felt a little guilty at abusing my brother's hospitality in this manner, but he replied swiftly that he quite understood. So in the end my birthday passed in London rather than Northumberland, and Cas made my day by presenting me with a new doctor's bag with an antelope stitched along each side.

“It’s an impala”, he explained. “It's unique; the creators in South Africa only did thirty, each with a different type of antelope on the outside. I thought you would like something a little distinctive, since doctors' bags are so alike, and you once said you thought having your initials on it was pretentious.”

“I love it!” I said firmly. “And my old one was falling apart, so it’s perfect. Thank you!”

He also handed me a gift for my new nephew, though I was under firm instruction not to open it myself but to hand it to my sister-in-law. I presumed (wrongly, as it turned out) that it was a cheque, and my happy day was complete when Mrs. Harvelle served me a full apple-pie for dessert at tea, saying she would wrap the rest for my trip. As Cas was almost fully recovered, I left two days later, on Saturday the twenty-sixth.

+~+~+

It turned out that Cas had an extra present for me; a first-class rail return ticket, including a sleeping car berth on the way back so I could spend an extra day with Sammy. I will not lie when I say that such thoughtfulness touched me. It also extended to my brother and his wife, for when she opened Cas’ gift, my sister-in-law gasped.

“What is it?” I asked.

Wordlessly, she handed the piece of paper to her husband, who seemed equally stunned once he had read it.

“Your friend has paid for four sessions of childcare for us over the next three years”, Sammy said, clearly overcome. “This is the top nanny company in the whole area; we could never have afforded their services, but they say they will come to the house and take D.J. for four weeks of fun and excitement, in whatever blocks of time we like provided we provide sufficient notice, so we can have some time to ourselves. And if we have another child in that time, they will take them as well!

“That’s my Cas!” I said proudly. My brother and sister-in-law looked at me a little oddly, I thought, given my friend’s generosity, but neither of them said anything further.

I had a wonderful week with my new nephew, who I quickly found was the stickiest child in history. Even if left alone on the settee, he would magically attract some sticky substance to his person, the Lord alone knows where from! I also enjoyed that my brother and sister-in-law got to go out for a couple of nights and leave me in charge of my nephew, so they had time to themselves. But as the weekend approached and my time drew to a close, I found myself missing London. Missing Baker Street. Missing….

I remember looking down at my namesake, and silently wondering at something I knew, deep down, that I could never have. Yet it did not bother me as much, perhaps, as it should have done. After all, I had something much better. And if I had a tear in my eye, well, the maid had obviously not dusted the room well enough.

I left late on Saturday evening, and my brother accompanied me to the station to see me off. I must say that there is something wonderful about the sleeper car service, going to sleep at one end of the country and waking up at another. And as it was first-class, I had a whole berth to myself. I turned in for the night feeling generally happy with life, my anxieties about Cas' recent travails shelved, I hoped, indefinitely.

In retrospect, I should have known what would happen next.

II

I had been woken with my morning coffee, and had wisely forsworn the frankly dangerous idea of shaving on a moving train. I looked at my watch; assuming we were on time, the train was probably just over half an hour from King’s Cross.

There was a knock at the door, and when I opened it, the conductor was standing in the corridor. I could tell at once that he was incredibly flustered, even before the man started babbling.

“I saw from the list of passengers that you are Doctor Daniel Smith”, he burbled. “Is that right?”

Cas had booked the tickets under an assumed name for me. Even though my face was (mercifully) unknown to most of the general public outside my practice, the increasing popularity of my stories about my best friend had already resulted in me being recognized by my name, and on one occasion a lady had embarrassed me with her forwardness upon discovering my identity. The Strand magazine was also currently serializing 'Dark Side of the Moon', our adventure in Hungary, so my profile was high at the time.

“Doctor Dean Winchester, at your service”, I said.

I presumed that the flicker of surprise I saw in the man's eyes was either because doctors tended not to travel incognito, or perhaps because he recognized my name. His next words confirmed it was the latter.

“You are Mr. Castiel Novak's author!” he blurted out. “Sir, it is terrible! Murder!”

I rued at that moment my decision not to take my new doctor’s bag on my short holiday, though at least I might bring my expertise to bear on whatever had happened. I followed the conductor out of the room, locking my door behind me before hastening down the corridor after him.

There was only one first-class sleeper coach, and the conductor unlocked the connecting door into the second-class section of the train. He walked through, only to stop so suddenly outside a compartment that I almost ran into the back of him. He looked nervously up and down the corridor before extracting a key and opening the door in front of him, and ushered me inside. 

It was a standard two-berth compartment, its bland ordinariness offset only by the man lying dead on the floor. He was an alpha of about thirty years of age, gaunt, dark hair already going grey and quite thin. His other main distinctive feature was a twisted lower lip, barely detectable due to his face having clearly contorted in anger before death. 

First things first, I thought. I turned to the conductor. 

“There will be an inquest”, I said calmly, “and you will of course be asked questions. As you were the first person on the scene, your evidence will be crucial. Is there any alcohol on the train?”

To my surprise, the man blushed.

“I have my own hip-flask”, he admitted, “but I am not allowed to drink on duty.”

“I am proscribing one glass of it for your nerves”, I said, scribbling a quick note to that effect, “and here is my address if your employers prove at all difficult. I need you to go back to your van and write down exactly what you did and saw, times included as best you can remember them. Once you are done, bring it back here to me, and I will read through it to see if it needs anything. Has anyone else seen the body?”

The lady in room four”, he said, looking embarrassed. “The man there had arranged to be called an hour before King's Cross, and I had just found him when she rang. She walked down the corridor when I failed to come. and saw everything. I took her back to her room and told her to stay there.”

“Did you lock the door when you left that time?” I asked.

He hesitated, and I guessed the negative. I sighed, and shooed him away. Once he was gone, I examined the body again, and concluded that death had been by two bullets, both of which had hit around the heart, and had almost certainly been fired from less than a foot away, given the scorching around the entrance wounds. I quickly searched the rest of the room, but found nothing except, rather incongruously, a sapphire tie-pin a little way under the lower bunk. This did not seem to sit with the man’s generally shoddy clothing, even though it lay not far from the body. I did not touch it, but I made a note of its position and wrote down a quick description, as well as sketching a diagram of the room. 

After a moment’s thought, I decided to also go through the dead man’s pockets, feeling rather awkward as I did so. They contained little more than the general clutter found in most gentlemen’s attire, but I did find three calling-cards in the wallet with ‘Dr. Abraham Slash’ on them. 

I was disturbed in my search by a knock at the door, and realized that the conductor must have returned. I told him to lock the room, and that we would adjourn to his van, which turned out to be a little cubby-hole of a room at the end of the first-class sleeper. I noticed as we walked that the train was slowing, and therefore we must be nearly at King’s Cross.

“Do you stay here all night?” I asked.

He nodded. 

“We have to lock the doors between each coach”, he explained, “but I am on call for the first three coaches, including yours and the one where the body..... um.....

I thought for a moment.

“Is the door into the third coach locked?” I asked.

“Yes”, he said. “And no-one summoned me from the second coach during the night, so that door was.....”

He trailed off again, but I knew from his pallor where his mind had got to. With the exits to adjoining coaches locked, then the murderer was almost certainly one of the other passengers in this coach. Someone still on the train.

I quickly checked through the conductor’s statement, and ascertained that he had a full list of passengers and their berths. There had only been six passengers in this coach, which had meant each had got a double-berth to themselves. I did not see how the two of us could detain five people, at least one of whom would be very anxious to leave, so I suggested instead that when the train stopped he should go straight to the station office and report the death to the relevant authorities, whilst I would remain with the body and his notes (the fact this would enable me to copy down the list of names was purely coincidental). 

I was barely back in the dead man's room when the train finally pulled to a halt, and the conductor almost fell out the door in his eagerness to be away. It was only a few short moments later (I had barely finished my copying) that we had two station officials there, followed ten minutes later by three policemen. They seemed impressed with the way I had handled matters, and having taken a short statement from myself, I was allowed to leave and head on to Baker Street, where I looked forward to discussing the night's events with my friend.

III

To my intense irritation, Cas was out when I returned to Baker Street, and I did not get to see him until he arrived back just before tea. Knowing how forgetful he was when it came to meals, I managed to curb my desire to discuss the case until we had reached coffee. 

“Really, doctor!” Cas said, waving an admonitory finger at me. “Am I not overworked enough that you must go stumbling over dead bodies every time you leave the house?”

I pouted, but I could see he didn’t mean it.

“It is exceedingly rare that a case has such a closed field”, I said. “Normally we have to look at everyone with a possible motive, but here, we have to find a motive amongst a small band of people. One of them must be the killer.”

Cas relaxed and sat back. I stared at him suspiciously.

“Do you already know something about this case?” I demanded.

“I think I can say with some certainty that I know which of the people on the train killed your dead man”, he said, sucking at his barley-sugar pipe. “I sent Henriksen a telegram when I read about the case in the paper this morning, and your evidence – which, by the way, was exceptionally well-gathered – only serves to confirm my suspicions.”

I marvelled at the modern London journalist, who could get a murder story out on the streets before I could traverse the short distance between King's Cross and Baker Street.

“I suspect the lady”, I said, looking at the list of passengers. “Miss Louise Mayfair. I think she was definitely in on it, and that she distracted the guard for some reason.”

“Henriksen did say in his reply that she was the only one with a criminal record”, Cas admitted. “And her past is quite interesting. Though she only distracted him after he had found the body, remember? And I am certain that this is a one-person crime.”

“The conductor seemed quite taken with her”, I recalled. “He stayed with her for some little time after returning her to her berth, he said. And all that time, the door to the crime scene was unlocked.”

“But the man was already dead”, Cas pointed out. “Hmm. Mr. Albert Brakes. A good name for a railway worker. Was he on the train all the time?”

“No”, I said. “The train stopped for water and a change of locomotive at Doncaster, where the North Eastern Railway staff were replaced by Great Northern ones. But I am certain from my examination that the victim did not die until Peterborough at the very earliest, more likely closer to Hitchin, and Mr. Brakes remained in his cupboard all the way from Doncaster.”

“All the way?” Cas asked, surprised.

“He answered a query from the gentleman in 2A about fifteen minutes in, but he stood in the corridor the whole time”, I said. “No-one could have got to the door of 7B. Doctor Slash's compartment, without his spotting them. And the doors at either end of the coach were locked.”

“What about the guard?” Cas asked. “Does he not have a key?” 

I shook my head. 

“The guard's van was situated between my first-class carriage and the locomotive”, I explained. “The new guard at Doncaster came up to the window of the conductor's area to check everything was all right, but he did not enter the coach.”

There was a knock at the door and a boy entered, bearing a telegram. Cas quickly read it, told the boy there was no reply and slipped him a coin before he left.

“Some inquiries I asked Henriksen to follow up”, he explained. “It seems as if those calling-cards you found in the dead man's wallet may actually have been genuine. It really was Dr. Abraham Slash who was killed.”

I frowned. The name seemed vaguely familiar to me for some reason. 

“The Foster Street Orphanage”, Cas reminded me. “You expounded very forcefully on it last summer.”

Then I remembered. The headline, 'Josiah versus Abraham' had stuck in my mind; a story of two brothers fighting over the future of an orphanage. Josiah Slash, the elder by several years, had wanted to close it down and sell the land, whilst the younger brother, Abraham, who held joint ownership of the property, had opposed him. However, Abraham was dying of a slow wasting disease, and although he might have years yet, the story had speculated that his older brother was just waiting for him to pass into the next world so he could sell the land.

“You think Mr. Josiah Slash may have killed his brother?” I asked. “But how could he have got onto the train. Unless....”

I suddenly saw it.

“Unless he was disguised as someone else!” I almost shouted. 

“An interesting speculation”, Cas said with a smile. “That would mean he would have to buy off one of the other people on the train so he could assume their identity for a short time.”

“I should have obtained physical descriptions of the four men”, I said. "I remember that picture of the brothers, and they were both tallish and rather gaunt, and I thought 'funeral directors'. I was locked in with the body, so I did not see any of the passengers alight.”

“Sergeant Baldur sent brief descriptions of everyone from the coach”, Cas said. “He says that Mr. Felix Bathurst in 2A is about thirty, a beta of medium height and a little overweight. Mr. Allington Ford in 3B is about fifty, a tall and rather thin alpha. Moving past Miss Louise Mayfair in 4B – unless Doctor Josiah Slash is that much of a master of disguise! - we have Mr. Michael Wollaston in 5A, about forty, an alpha, tall and of normal build. Mr. Evan Smith in 6A is also about forty, a beta this time, short and thin. And of course there is your conductor.”

“He is a beta, about sixty and rather fat for a tall man”, I said, remembering how the man had almost matched my above-average height, unusually for a beta. “It seems to look like either Mr. Ford or Mr. Wollaston, as they have the height to match Mr. Josiah Slash.”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “You have stumbled across a most interesting case, doctor, but I think by tomorrow or the day after I may have enough to prove who the murderer was.”

I stared at him dubiously, but he looked strangely confident.

IV

It was snowing again that day, and Cas had to go out after dinner for some reason. I was glad not to accompany him, though when he did not immediately return, I began to wish that I had. The snow was now falling so heavily that I could not even make out the houses across the street from our window, and I grew increasingly worried as I sat on our commodious sofa by the fire, waiting for him. At last I heard the welcoming turning of the handle, and turned to see my friend enter. 

He looked awful. I hurried over to him and helped him out of his wet coat, and over to the fireplace. He was shivering, and I could have proposed marriage to her when Mrs. Harvelle bustled in after him with a steaming cup of hot chocolate. Though the knowing smile she gave before she left and very pointedly closed the door was not so welcome.

I quickly realized that all my friend's clothes were soaked, and set about undressing him by the fireplace. He stood there seemingly too out of it to notice, though he did respond to commands to move so I could get his various items of clothing off of him. I then took a towel from the drying-rail in front of the fire – mercifully heated – and began to rub him all over, drying him off. The small sighs of happiness as he returned to normality were distracting, but at least they showed he was improving.

Finally I dressed him in his favourite dressing-gown and sat him down on the sofa, making sure he was with it enough to keep hold of his mug before placing it in his hands. Typically he drank it down almost at once, making me wince; I knew I could never do that. He was still shivering slightly though, and that had to be remedied.

Gently I took away his cup and then stood him up, slipping both our dressing-gowns off. It took some manoeuvring to get us both on the sofa again, but soon I was stretched out with six foot of naked genius on top of me, Cas being warmed by both me and the fire. He sighed happily, and cuddled into me.

“So good”, he muttered. “I don't deserve you, Dean.”

I had wanted to yell at him for being so careless with his health as to get this way, but as those blue eyes stared at me in gratitude, my anger melted away. I hugged him closer, and kissed him on the lips.

“Love you, Cas”, I whispered. “Even when you're a bloody icicle!”

I yelped as he entangled his cold feet with my warm ones, but he just snuggled closer and promptly passed out. I looked up at him and smiled. I was so damned lucky!

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur came round the following day, to bring us up to date on developments. Unsurprisingly no-one amongst the passengers admitted to recognizing the tie-pin, although in the sergeant's eyes such a quality item befitted Mr. Wollaston, who had a fair-sized estate in Scotland, rather than Mr. Ford, who owned a medium-sized house in London. Mr. Josiah Slash had said when asked that his brother never wore anything so showy, preferring to dress down despite his wealth. 

Cas also told me he had sent another telegram which, if answered, might clear things up somewhat, but he would tell me nothing more. No matter how much I pouted (and I did not pout!).

The day was marked, however, by a sensational development in the case. My quick search of the compartment had failed to uncover it, but hidden under the lower of the two beds was found a revolver from which two shots had been discharged. And there had been fingerprints on it – except they turned out to belong to no-one on the train, as all the passengers had by this time been interviewed and had their prints taken. Mr. Josiah Slash had identified the gun as one owned by his brother, and a servant in the house had backed up this testimony. 

“That seems very strange”, I observed after tea that evening. “Surely a murderer would either take any weapon with him, or dispose of it via the window, where it would be almost undetectable?”

“There was the possibility of everyone being searched”, Cas reminded me. “And throwing something from a train window into the pitch dark bears its own risk; the murderer could not know if they might be passing an unlit station, where it could be discovered the next day.”

“They could easily have wiped the gun after the crime”, I said. “But I don't see how anyone else could have got onto the train without being seen.”

He had that knowing look that really irritated me, even when he hid it behind his book. I did another non-pout.

+~+~+

Ten days passed, and I assumed that Cas had had no answer to his telegram. But one Thursday morning, I was excited to read in the paper that there had been a confession, at least of sorts. A Mr. Isaac Olivier, who had apparently disembarked in New York some two days ago from the SS Imperator, claimed in a newspaper that he had killed Dr. Abraham Slash before fleeing to the United States. He said that he had sneaked onto the train during the changeover at Doncaster and picked the lock of compartment 1, the only empty one in the coach. He had knocked at the victim's door pretending to be the conductor, then forced his way in and shot him at close range. His motive, he said cryptically, was that Dr. Abraham Slash was far from what he appeared to be, and one day the whole truth regarding his character would out. I assumed that the police forces of that country would be hunting Mr. Olivier, but with the wide-open spaces of the west still being settled and generally lawless, there would be little hope of finding him in that vast area.

That same morning Cas announced that he was expecting a visitor, and asked if I would remain. Sure enough, soon after Mrs. Harvelle announced our guest.

“Mr. Josiah Slash.”

A tall and somewhat cadaverous gentleman entered our room, and walked silently to the empty chair by the fire. He seemed vaguely familiar from somewhere, but I assumed that it was just my recollection of his picture in the Times. Cas waited until he had sat down before speaking. 

“You murdered your brother.”

V

Perhaps not the most conventional start to a conversation, especially as I promptly broke a pencil in my surprise. Our guest, however, did not seem in the least bit perturbed.

“That is a serious accusation”, he said dryly, “even from such a great man as yourself. I trust you can make it good?”

“I would rather not”, Cas said, to my further surprise. “In the light of certain circumstances surrounding the crime, bringing you to trial would not only be pointless, but would harm innocent – well, fairly innocent people who should not have been involved.”

“They knew the risks”, Mr. Slash said curtly. “One acted through loyalty, the other for a great sum of money. Why do you believe that I should not face trial for such a heinous crime, assuming of course that I actually did it?”

Cas hesitated, which was very unlike him.

“Because the slow but certain death you are approaching was brought on by your own brother”, he said softly. “You merely returned the favour.”

I needed a drink.

+~+~+

“I think that this crime dates back some years, to a time when you and your brother Abraham were both in the grip of a devil called opium”, Cas said. “The story your brother put out was that he contracted a fatal disease whilst in China, but the truth is that he contracted that disease via his drug-taking.”

“Abe was always one for spinning a good yarn”, our visitor said with a wry smile. “The twisted lip was from when he tried to push me out of a tree when we were boys; he slipped and fell out himself, but told our parents I had pushed him anyway. He was always so credible; he even persuaded people last year that I was the one who wanted to close the orphanage, not him.”

“Indeed”, Cas said, “and he used that credibility to secure your end. He persuaded you some time ago that you needed an injection, and he made sure to use a needle smeared with his own infected blood. He knew that he himself had years left, but by combining the dose with other chemicals he was able to ensure that you would have but months. It took only a little time to manifest, did it not?”

Our visitor nodded.

“My doctor in Harley Street confirmed it was exactly the same thing Abe had”, he said. “He was even able to give me a rough date as to when I got infected. That was how I tracked it down to his injection.”

"It seems rather odd for just a few years of good living", I said dubiously.

"My brother was wooing a lady of considerable estate in the North", our guest explained. "I believe that he hoped to have at least one child by her before his time was up, and so live on that way."

“You knew that your brother had regular business in Edinburgh, so killing him on the night sleeper seemed a good choice”, Cas continued. “You found a conductor who looked similar to you in appearance, and paid him to take a few days off so you could take his place. Did your brother recognize you at the end?”

“He did”, our visitor said curtly. “I made sure of that!”

“But Mr. Brakes was at least three stone heavier!” I objected, though I had a nagging feeling that my semi-recognition of the man when he had arrived only proved Cas' theory.

“My tailor created what he called a 'fat-suit'”, our visitor explained. “Cheek pads, rouge and old-fashioned hair powder did the rest. I trust I was convincing as Mr. Albert Brakes, doctor?”

I felt as if my world was falling apart.

“What about the tie-pin?” I asked.

“That, like the gun, was to suggest an outsider”, Cas said. “Ironically it also became a weakness. Few genuine railway employees, faced with such temptation and a minimal likelihood of ever being found out, would have left it there.”

“But the telegram!” I objected. “New York?”

“A faithful servant who doubtless enjoyed a fast trip across the wide Atlantic Ocean and back again”, Cas said. Our guest nodded.

“So now you know all”, he said. “I know that the law is the law, but I have read the good doctor's books about you, Mr. Novak. I think you may well grant me justice rather than the law.”

Cas hesitated.

“The London police are very determined”, he said, “and though I hesitate to speak ill of them, it is quite possible that they may make a case against one of the other passengers if they choose not to believe your telegram. I personally think that unlikely, but if any innocent person has to go to court as a result of your actions, Mr. Slash, I will have no hesitation in producing this.”

He rose and walked over to his desk, taking out a single sheet of paper before carrying it to and placing it on the table I was sat at.

“This is a signed confession”, he said. “You will sign it, the doctor here will witness it, and I will only produce it if absolutely necessary. Be assured, I will use it if the need arises, but my personal opinion is that you will soon be answering to a higher court than any in this world.”

Our visitor nodded, stood and walked boldly over to the table, signing without hesitation. I marvelled that the fretful railway official and the well-dressed man about town could be one and the same person, before adding my own scrawl. He bowed to us both and left silently.

“Well!” I said.

“His brother effectively murdered him, albeit slowly”, Cas said. “He merely struck back. An eye for an eye, as the Good Book says. And he will bear the mark of that crime for what remains of his days.”

+~+~+

Mr. Josiah Slash lived only for a further two months after his encounter with us in Baker Street. In his will, he left a letter to us both, thanking us for our understanding, and asking that the case be published. I have fulfilled that final request.

+~+~+

In our next case, someone from my own past came unexpectedly and dramatically back into my life – oh, and they were also involved in a small matter of murder.....


	4. Case 56: About A Boy (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, referred to elsewhere as 'the case of Colonel Warburton's madness'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although the term 'gene' was not used historically until 1909, I am assuming that an alpha/beta/omega world would have been driven to discover it somewhat earlier.

I

My beloved Cas often poked gentle fun at my cynical view of the Universe in general, and my belief that things always went wrong sooner or later, although I could perhaps have countered at that time as to how good my life had seemed before his unannounced three-year absence from it. I little knew then just how soon that experience was to be repeated, and to a much worse degree. What he said was true; I believed that even if good things did happen, matters always evened themselves out in the end. So when I returned happily from my trip to see Sammy - dead bodies in the next coach permitting, ahem – I was wary as to what life had in store to throw at me next.  
   
Rightly so, as things very soon turned out.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“We may have a new case”, Cas announced about a week after Valentine’s Day. “A Mrs. Matthew Warburton wishes us to investigate as to whether her father-in-law is being poisoned, as he is suffering from a bout of madness.”  
   
I looked across in surprise.  
   
“Surely such a request would more likely come from her husband, or a blood relative?” I asked.  
   
“She is markedly uninformative in her communication”, Cas said, frowning down at a letter as if it had displeased him, “but reading between the lines, it seems there is discord between her husband and his two brothers. She asks if we can visit her at” – he squinted at the letter – “Stoke Fratrum, not far from Alresford in the county of Hampshire. Her father-in-law is the local squire there.”

I frowned. I was sure I had heard someone mention that place before in some context or other, but the memory remained irritatingly elusive.  
   
“It all sounds rather strange”, I remarked. “But we should definitely attend, if she has asked for you. I can easily get Peter to cover my case load, as he still owes me for covering his wife’s pregnancy last year.”

“I did read in the newspapers that the city's population is expanding”, Cas smiled. “He seems to be responsible for at least part of that!”

+~+~+

Thus the following day we decamped to Waterloo Station once more, this time taking the Winchester train and alighting at the charming town of Alresford, the nearest station to Stoke Fratrum. A twenty-minute carriage ride later, and we had entered the village itself, which was charmingly set in its own little dean and had a small grey-stone church as well as a tavern, the Pilgrim’s Rest. It was quite idyllic, even down to the unusually warm weather and gentle breeze that welcomed us.  
   
Henston Hall itself was a lovely building, just large enough to fulfill the requirements of a manor house but small enough to function like a family home. On arriving, we were told that Mrs. Warburton was expecting us, as we were to be shown straight into her presence, if that was acceptable. It was, and a servant led us to a small reception room off the main hall. I stepped in behind Cas – and froze!  
   
Oh. My. God!  
   
+~+~+  
   
Mrs. Warburton. Formerly Miss Lisa Braeden, the one woman I had slept with during Cas' three-year absence from my life in the early eighties. As a doctor I should have been highly skilled at hiding my emotions, but it would not have needed a detective of Cas' great ability to know from my reaction that something was wrong here. I looked as if I had seen a ghost.  
   
“You are married”, I said dumbly.  
   
She seemed almost as shocked as I was, and it took her some little time to reply. Cas looked between us curiously.  
   
“Yes”, she said. “Matthew..... I met him just after we...... you know.”  
   
I knew. Hell, I could not possibly have felt any worse!

Which showed just how much I so often underestimated the Universe, because at that moment a door opened to the side, and a small boy ran into the room and up to Lisa – Mrs. Warburton. He had sandy-brown curly hair and a cheerful smile. And green eyes. He was also about four years old, and as he passed me I caught an undeniable scent of a fellow sigma. Seriously, this was my life?

“Benjamin, I told you I had visitors”, she said disapprovingly as a breathless nanny came rushing through the door after her charge, to receive a scowl from the boy. “I will play with you later, once I have sorted out my business.”  
   
“But mama…” he objected.  
   
She silenced him with a look. Though it was nothing compared to the one I was getting from Cas. In the name of all that was holy, how did I end up in such a mess?  
   
II  
   
Refreshments were served, and Mrs. Warburton insisted on our eating before she told us of why she had asked for Cas’ help. Thus it was about an hour later that the three of us finally got down to business, I instinctively placing Cas between the two of us almost as a shield. Judging from the look on her face, she knew exactly what I was doing.

“My father-in-law Tom - the Colonel - owns the Hall”, she explained. “Currently he is being sedated under advice from our local doctor, after he suffered a bout of madness at dinner the night before last. This was his third such attack, yet he has been completely lucid between them, and shown no signs of the malady outside of the attacks. I would appreciate, Dean, if you could make your own diagnosis of him.”  
   
I winced at her casual use of my Christian name. The slightest twitch of an eyebrow told me Cas had, of course, spotted it.  
   
“I will do so”, I said. “You, uh, are married to his son?”  
   
“To his youngest, Matt”, she said. “He has two other sons, George and Tommy. All five of us were at dinner that night, so I do not see how anything he ate could have been poisoned in any way.”  
   
Cas, bless him, did not comment on my apparent discomfort.  
   
“If I investigate this case”, he said, giving me a look that said quite clearly that there would be some difficult questions on the not too distant future, “I shall need to ask some questions that you may deem either irrelevant or impertinent, Mrs. Warburton. Be assured, however, that every question will have a purpose. First, I must be direct. In the event of your uncle’s incapacity or death, who inherits the estate?”  
   
“That is difficult”, she said. “Until last year, the estate was to be split three ways, equally between the sons. However, around that time the colonel had a severe illness, and called his sons home. Matt and Tommy came, but George did not, preferring to stay in the north to ‘pursue a business opportunity’.” Her lip curled in disdain. “As a result, the colonel rewrote his will. Matt and Tommy were to get two-fifths each, and George only one-fifth, so it would still take two of them to decide on the future of the house and estate.”  
   
She hesitated.  
   
“And the poisonings only started after the eldest son found out he had been partially disinherited”, Cas said.  
   
She nodded. Cas thought for a moment.  
   
“What is your local doctor like?”  
   
She snorted disdainfully.  
   
“Percival Smith is a fool!” she said bluntly, “but I would stake the house on his being an honest fool. I do not think he could be bribed.”  
   
Cas paused.  
   
“The doctor and I had better stay at the local inn”, he said eventually. “I do not wish to inconvenience a household already upset by the semi-removal of its master. Do you happen to have a book on the family’s history?”  
   
She seemed a little surprised at the question, but nodded.  
   
“It is on display in the big glass case in the library, directly opposite this room”, she said, “Would you like me to have one of the servants show you there?”  
   
“I only wish to check a few things”, Cas said, getting up. “I am sure the good doctor can keep you ‘entertained’ in my brief absence.”  
   
He looked meaningfully at me, and was gone from the room before I had the chance to hit him. Hard. Mrs. Warburton looked at me, and seemed to feel almost as awkward as I did.  
   
“So”, I said, eloquent as ever.  
   
“So”, she echoed. 

“Ben”, I said. “He is about four years old?”  
   
I was clearly asking much more than her son’s age, and she knew it.  
   
“Four years and six months”, she said quietly. “His birthday is August the twentieth.”

I swallowed hard. An important part of my future life depended on my next question.

“Matthew?” I said eloquently.

“A beta”, she said flatly. “The whole family are.”

Women were unable to recognize a sigma's scent, which could only be detected by unattached sigma males. Which was a relief, as it meant that neither she nor her husband would know that I was almost certainly Benjamin's father. And since sigmas always had an alpha father..... I had a son. 

I was in so much trouble.  
   
“When did you get married?” I asked.  
   
“New Year’s Day after we......”, she trailed off. “We thought that I was probably expecting, because….”  
   
This belonged in some book titled Most Awkward Conversations Ever. It definitely featured in the top one hundred of all time. I thought back to that sandy-haired little boy, and felt a lump forming in my throat. And this so soon after Cas had both found and lost his own son. Life was unfair.  
   
“You and Matt both have green eyes, so unless someone else from the party comes forward, there’s no way of telling”, she said, looking embarrassed at the fact. 

I refrained from telling her that I all but knew anyway.  
   
“Matthew is a good father?” I ventured.  
   
“The best!” she said firmly. 

The implication was clear; stay out. I sighed to myself.  
   
III  
   
Mercifully, Cas did not ask me about my discussion with Mrs. Warburton as we were driven back to the village. After we had secured a room at the inn and had a surprisingly passable dinner, we retired to our room, a double. I asked about his research.  
   
“I went down to the kitchens and spoke with Mrs. Fulmore, the cook”, he said. “I thought it best to get her account of the day of the potential poisoning first.”  
   
I lay back on one of the beds, and he watched me from the other one, clearly a little uncertain.  
   
“I want to tell you everything”, I said softly. And I did. When I had finished, I turned away from him and stared at the ugly wallpaper.

“Is there any doubt?” he asked eventually.

I sniffed.

“None”, I said sourly. “It is impossible for betas to have sigma offspring; the marker cannot jump a generation like that for kappas can. I am that poor boy's father, Cas!”

I left out the obvious follow-on from that. I nearly burst when I felt the bed creak under his weight, and he snuggled in behind me.

“You feel that you betrayed me in some way”, he said softly.

I was not crying. Alphas did not cry. It was probably an allergic reaction. To that horrible wallpaper, most likely. He nuzzled into the back of my neck, and I bit back what was just possibly a sob.

“You had no way of knowing when or if I was coming back”, he whispered. “You had a right to get on with your life....”

“I betrayed you!” I bit out. “Hell, Cas, I loved you even then, and I went and slept with someone else!”

“If you had known for certain that I would be returning, perhaps I would have a right to be angry”, he said, far too reasonably. “But you had none. I wish I could tell you why I had to go away and stay for so long, but I cannot. But I will tell you this, Dean. I missed you all the time I was away, and eventually it was my desperate longing to be back with you that drew me home.”

I finally let out the suppressed sob, turned, and curled into him. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me in, and we lay there in the darkness of a winter's evening in a cold Hampshire inn, two alphas in love. I did not deserve this wonderful man's forgiveness, but I was determined to earn it. Every day of our lives together.

+~+~+

I woke the following morning after a surprisingly good night's rest, despite the fact that I had gone to bed almost fully clothed. The fact that Cas was still holding me in his arms was, just possibly, one factor in that. I shifted in his embrace, and he woke, bleary-eyed as usual.

“What will you do?” he asked quietly.

A good question, and one I had spent much of the evening before worrying over. Legally and as an alpha, I could probably insist on taking Benjamin as my first-born son and raising him on my own. But aside from my somewhat irregular life with Cas, I knew I could not do that to a boy who was clearly happy with his current life. Cas fondled my cheek.  
   
“You already know what you have to do”, he said softly. “You are too much of a good man to do anything else. You can only offer her your support, and be ready to help if ever needed.”  
   
“But what if her husband is involved in the poisoning?” I asked.  
   
He looked at me narrowly.  
   
“Would you wish that?” he asked softly.  
   
And a very small part of me, a very bad part of me, whispered yes. I said nothing, but Cas knew. He always knew.

“Enough!” he growled. “I cannot have you thinking so ill of yourself. I need the man I love in top form when I am on a case.”

And with that he began to remove my clothes, followed swiftly by his own, whilst tactfully ignoring the tears in my eyes. We were naked in next to no time, and he was soon gently rubbing himself up against and all over me. I knew that, once again, he was scenting me, but this time I welcomed it, knowing that it showed that I was his and no-one else's. I groaned as our erections rubbed against each other, then again as he took both of them in his hand and began to jerk us both off. I was about to come when he suddenly leaned even closer and whispered in my ear.

“I love you, Dean Winchester.”

I came violently, sobbing my relief into his shoulder as he followed me over the edge just seconds later. We clung to each other, both panting heavily from our exertions, before he gently pulled me up from the bed and wiped us both down. I waited until he had finished then pulled him close again, kissing him like my life depended on it.  
   
+~+~+  
   
We returned to the Hall later that morning, to be met by the three Warburton brothers. The inn had proven a treasure-trove of gossip, and we now knew that there was a significant age gap between George, the eldest, and his two younger siblings, the reason being that Colonel Warburton had married twice. His first wife had left him (and George) for another man, after which he had retired from London society to Henston, his ancestral home. He had married again sometime after, but his second wife, having secured the dynasty with two more sons, had died giving birth to a stillborn daughter. The locals had said that because of this, there had always been bad blood between the Warburtons, especially between the colonel and his eldest son after the latter’s refusal to come home the previous year.  
   
George Warburton was in his late thirties, a bluff red-faced beta tending towards corpulence. He was clearly against our involvement, unlike his brothers, who both welcomed us. Thomas Warburton Junior was in his late twenties and his brother Matthew a year or two younger, both tall, silent men with grave expressions on their faces. From the cordiality of Matthew Warburton’s welcome, I deduced that his wife had not mentioned any connection between her and myself. Thank Heaven for small mercies!  
   
Cas remained with the brothers whilst I was shown up to see the colonel who, perhaps mercifully, was again under sedation. Doctor Percival Smith was with him, and I quickly formed a favourable impression of the older man, agreeing with his diagnosis that the colonel was suffering from madness. Though the cause was a mystery, as there was apparently no history of it in the family.  
   
“I have read many of your detective books”, Doctor Smith said, blushing as if admitting to some cardinal sin, “and I have taken one or two investigative measures myself. I covertly extracted samples of the colonel’s shaving cream and other toiletries and tested them myself, but found nothing. However….”  
   
He stopped, looking guilty for some reason.  
   
“What is it?” I pressed.  
   
“I treated Mr. Matthew for a severe chest infection a few weeks ago”, he said slowly. “Whilst I was in his room, I found a book which had been pushed under the bed. It was about certain poisons which can cause madness.”  
   
“Oh”, I said, trying to suppress a horrible feeling of pleasure at the revelation. “Mr. Matthew.”  
   
IV  
   
“This is all stuff and nonsense”, Mr. George Warburton said, a little too loudly.  
   
Cas had asked all sorts of questions, and it was now time for lunch. He had, just after arriving, been down to the kitchen and somehow persuaded the cook to produce much the same meal as on the day the colonel’s madness had flared up. Mercifully (for my sake) there was only the six of us; Benjamin Warburton was eating alone with his nanny.  
   
“It is my opinion that something the colonel ingested that day brought on his madness”, Cas said firmly. “Now, all of you were at that luncheon. I need to know who ate or didn’t eat which dish.”  
   
Amidst a lot of discussion, the meal progressed slowly. It had been a Sunday, so it had been (and was again) roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and vegetables, followed by blancmange for dessert and then coffee. There was some little disagreement over who ate what, but the general upshot was that the colonel did not eat anything which was not also eaten by at least one of the other people at the table. I expected Cas to look disappointed at that, but to my surprise he did not.  
   
“The old man was sulking, I remember”, Mr. Matthew Warburton said. “That fool of a doctor had left a list of things he couldn’t eat because they might start him off again, and blancmange was on the list.”  
   
“What did he have instead?” Cas asked.  
   
“The remains of an apple pie from the day before, with custard”, Mr. George Warburton said. “He and I had half each; I hate blancmange!”  
   
Cas nodded at that. I noted that there was no pie today worse luck.  
   
”So there’s no way he could have been poisoned at the dinner table, then?” Mr. Thomas Warburton asked.  
   
“He was not”, Cas said firmly.  
   
Mr. George Warburton started up. “But you said…..”  
   
“I said that something he ingested that day brought on his madness”, Cas explained. “I did not say that that something came from luncheon. But since his attacks came in the mid-afternoon, he clearly ate something else very soon after lunch. I shall have to make further inquiries to find out what it was.” 

He turned to the eldest Warburton.

“I have a feeling that the colonel may have been given something in his room”, he said. “With your permission, I would like to search it...”

“No!” Mr. George Warburton snorted. “That is a complete invasion of privacy!”

“We could have the old man moved to another room whilst he's under”, his brother Thomas said. 

“Doctor Smith has only just sedated him”, I pointed out. “Moving him at this time would be unwise, as sleep would be beneficial to him. It would be better to wait until tomorrow morning when it starts to wear off, and he can be helped there partially under his own steam.”

“Then we shall return first thing tomorrow morning”, Cas said firmly. 

Mr. George Warburton scowled, but said nothing.

+~+~+

“Do you think you will find anything in the colonel's room?” I asked as the carriage took us back to the inn.

He turned to look at me.

“Doctor”, he said carefully, “I presume you have brought your gun down with you?”

A pleasurable chill ran down my spine.

“Yes”, I said excitedly.

“Then tonight we are going hunting”, he said.

“What for?” I asked, puzzled.

“A murderer.”

I looked at him on confusion, but clearly he would say no more. Damnation!

+~+~+

I was not surprised when our night trip took us back to the Hall. Cas went round the back, and easily opened one of the windows there.

“I left a couple open when I was here earlier”, he explained. “It pays to be prepared.”

We entered into a small sitting-room, and Cas checked to see if the coast was clear before leading me out into the corridor. I noted that he had chosen a window near the back stairs, and we were able to reach the first floor easily. Cas moved silently along – even though I was on tiptoes, my own steps sounded loud in comparison – until he reached a small, plain door.

“This is a store-cupboard”, he explained, “but it has a clear view of the colonel's door. We may have a long wait, my friend. I would assume that our poisoner would wish to wait until the small hours of the morning, when they could be more certain that everyone else in the house was asleep, before trying anything.”

I tried not to think about the fact that Cas had said 'they' rather than the usual 'he'. I had not considered – or rather, had not wanted to consider - Mrs. Warburton as a potential suspect.

My friend was proved right about our quarry, and it must have been after three o'clock that we finally heard movement, someone edging along the corridor and trying to keep quiet. There was the faintest of creaks, followed by the soft closing of the bedroom door. After what seemed like an age it opened again, and this time the night walker was moving almost directly towards us. As they passed the only window in the corridor, I could finally see their face. I had to suppress a gasp.

The figure passed on, presumably to their own bedroom, and after a few moments Cas nudged me. I realized that in our attempt to look out of the slightly open door without being seen, I had draped myself all over the smaller man.

“Not here, doctor”, Cas whispered. “Contain yourself!”

I blushed fiercely, glad that the darkness could hide my mortification, and we made our way silently from the house.

+~+~+

The following morning, Cas and I made certain preparations before our visit to the Hall, and arrived there shortly after nine o'clock. I was dispatched upstairs to make a quick check on the colonel's state of health, and returned ten minutes later to find my friend in the room with the four Warburtons.

“So you wish to check the old man's room today, then?” Mr. Thomas Warburton asked.

“I no longer need to”, Cas said airily. “I know who the poisoner was, I know how it was done, and most importantly of all, I have proof!”

They all stared at him in shock.

“How?” Mr. Matthew Warburton asked suspiciously. “Where from?”

V

Cas looked at me, and I solemnly handed him a plain white envelope. He walked over to the desk in the room and carefully arranged a writing pad before tipping out a small quantity of ash from the envelope, which he resealed. 

The four Warburtons watched him in fascination. Cas looked pointedly at Mr. Thomas Warburton.

“It was your own kindness that gave you away”, he said quietly, so much that I could barely hear him. “You knew your father was restricted in the things he could eat, and you knew that he would resent not being able to have the same dessert as the rest of you. So you arranged an extra little treat for him. He has a weakness for cherries, so you purchased some from the village shop that day and gave them to him in his room after luncheon.”

Mr. Thomas Warburton had gone deathly pale.

“No!” he stammered. 

“I asked Doctor Smith about his examination of the colonel after he sedated him”, Cas said, “and although I know you all have a low opinion of him, it was his acute observational skills that set me on the right track. He said he was confused that although the colonel only had apple-pie for luncheon, his teeth were stained as if he had been eating some sort of dark fruit.”

The three other Warburtons were now all eyeing Mr. Thomas warily.

“Tom”, his elder brother said. “Why?”

Cas held up his hand for silence.

“I said that there was proof”, he said. “I am afraid I had to undertake a small deception to get it. I searched your father's room yesterday, and found the remains of the cherry stalks in a small waste-paper basket. It struck me that, if the murderer realized that this evidence might connect them to the crime, then they would move quickly to destroy it. Last night, one of you entered your father's room and retrieved those stalks, then took them back to their own room and placed them in their fireplace.”

He stood back from the desk. Even though he was shorter in stature than the three Warburton sons, he seemed to tower over them.

“I doubt you are aware of it”, he said, “but science had progressed amazingly these past few years. It is now possible to examine the ash from a fire, and deduce exactly what was burnt in that fire. My second deception involved the good doctor here, who as well as checking on your father, visited the murderer's room and extracted these ashes from the fireplace there. These prove who the murderer is.”

At that most untimely moment, the door opened and a familiar figure ran into the room. It was Benjamin Warburton. He smiled and ran over to his mother, and his path took him by the brothers. 

I saw the flash of a knife almost too late. Mr. George Warburton's face twisted beyond recognition in anger as he reached for the boy, clearly determined to use him to make his escape. I didn't hesitate, flying across the distance between us so fast that I bowled Mr. Thomas clean over. My hands fasted around the murderer's neck, and I actually snarled as I pressed him back into the fireplace, my eyes black with anger.

“Dean!”

It was Cas' voice, as calm as ever, Cas' hand placed gently on my shoulder, and I slowly realized that I was actually trying to kill a fellow human being. My grip relaxed, and I dimly heard Mrs. Warburton and her husband hustling their son from the room, and her brother-in-law summoning a servant and ordering them to fetch the local constable. All I could feel was Cas' hand on my shoulder, bringing me back to reality.

+~+~+

“So how did Mr. George Warburton manage to poison the cherries?” I asked.

It was probably the first words I had spoken since the attack. I had left the Hall in silence and had not spoken all evening, trying to come to terms with the sheer fury I had felt, the demon inside me that had gone for Mr. George Warburton intending to kill him. Cas looked at me curiously.

“I would presume that he called for his brother on his way down to luncheon, saw the cherries and guessed what he would do”, he said. “He was waiting for just such an opportunity.”

I nodded, but said nothing.

“Doctor”, Cas said in that gravelled growl of his, “you are being too hard on yourself. You saw your own flesh and blood being threatened, and you reacted accordingly. Everyone has a point at which they break, something which will make them react like that. There is nothing wrong in yours being your potential flesh and blood.”

I shuddered, and moved instinctively closer to him. It was a bitterly cold day for our drive back to Alresford Station, and I felt numb inside. The events of the past few days had been a lot to take in. He did not hesitate before wrapping a comforting arm around me, and we drove on in silence.

+~+~+

In our next case, a set of seemingly harmless pranks conceal a deadly intent.....


	5. Case 57 :Sex And Violence (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as ‘the case of the unfortunate Madame Montpensier’.

I

It was with a particular gruesomeness that this unusual case first came to our attention on the day it did, because what seemed to have been meant as a practical joke had somewhat more serious repercussions than the person who played that joke could ever have imagined.  
   
It all began on All Fools' Day, a day I was secretly glad that Cas never resorted to practical jokes unless provoked (apparently his brother Gabriel still had a slight limp from the one and only time he had made the mistake of playing a joke on his little brother). The love of my life had just finished a tiring case where his advice on solving a crime had not been followed up with sufficient speed, with the result that the criminal had actually managed to get on a boat for the United States. Fortunately they had been intercepted in Ireland, but the affair (and of course the subsequent government cover-up) had left him demoralized, and the previous night he had just wanted to cuddle. As I had precisely zero chance of refusing him anything, cuddle we had, and he looked better for it this morning. Especially after I had fetched him his first coffee in bed, for which he had thanked me heartily.  
   
I winced slightly as my backside ached painfully. His thanks had been very, very hearty!  
   
“We shall be receiving a guest soon”, Cas yawned as he stumbled to the table, where I quickly forked half my bacon onto his plate. I do not know why Mrs. Harvelle did not just give him a bigger pile anyway, though I suspected that he rather liked the idea of me giving up food for him. He must have known that I would have given up so much more.  
   
“Do they have a case for you?” I asked hopefully.  
   
“I have no idea”, he said, munching at what was surely half a pig. “All I can tell you is that our visitor will be female, about twenty to twenty-five years of age, have red hair and will probably be wearing….” -he concentrated for a moment – “a dark red dress.”  
   
I stared at him in surprise, as he was hardly attired to receive company. He had his dressing-gown on over his pyjamas, and his hair, as usual, was a complete disaster area.  
   
“When is this lady coming?” I asked, hoping he would get dressed beforehand. Not that I had any trouble with him in so few clothes – the fewer the better, as far as I was concerned – but letting other people see him like this brought out my extremely small and rarely seen jealous streak. He caught my look and glanced down at his attire.  
   
“Oh”, he said. “I suppose I had better change. Clearly all that sex has made me forgetful.”  
   
I spluttered into my coffee as he walked back into my room, shucking his dressing-gown and walking naked as the day he was born. Honestly!  
   


It was a fine sight, though!

+~+~+  
   
A mercifully long twelve minutes later, Mrs. Harvelle showed up our visitor. She was exactly as Cas described, and quite attractive. Though not a patch on my man, who was wearing the blue shirt and matching waistcoat that I loved, and looked….  
   
I gripped my pencil tightly and strove to drag my mind out of the gutter it seemed determined to take up permanent residence in.  
   
“My name is Miss Emma Owen”, the lady said, and I detected a faint Welsh accent as she spoke. “I come from Kerry in Montgomeryshire, but for the past six years have found a home with a family friend in Maida Vale, not far from here. Her name is Mrs. Mabel Montpensier, and she too has Welsh origins.”  
   
“And pray what brings you to our house today?” Cas asked politely.  
   
The lady reddened.  
   
“It is all rather macabre”, she said awkwardly. “Indeed, I may have over-reacted to the occurrences this morning. But I feel that there is more to recent events that it seems, and since our local constable will not take an interest in the matter, I hoped that you might.”  
   
“What matter?” Cas asked patiently. The lady was, it seemed, inclined to witter.  
   
“Someone has been playing jokes on Mabel!”  
   
All right, that was unexpected. Even Cas was surprised for a moment.  
   
“I take it that these jokes have a sinister air to them?” he asked, “otherwise they would not concern you so much?”  
   
The lady took a deep breath.  
   
“I had better start at the beginning”, she said. “Until six years ago, I lived with my father, who worked at a quarry in the west of the county. At that time he was killed in a landslide, and my prospects looked bleak, as we did not even own our own home. However, my late mother had apparently planned for just such an emergency. Mabel – Mrs. Montpensier – was an old school friend of my mother’s; she married a London merchant and moved here over a decade ago. He has done exceptionally well for himself, so she thought nothing of my mother’s request to take me on. I was sixteen at the time and had next to nothing, so I owe my dear friend all.”

“Mr. Montpensier is French?” I asked.

“Hugh is actually Scottish”, she said, “but has Huguenot ancestors about whom he goes on at great length.”

I smiled at that.

“Apart from the servants, does anyone else live at the house?” Cas asked.

“Not exactly”, she said. Seeing our confused looks, she continued. "Mr. Montpensier's brother William spends much of his time there, although he has a small place of his own somewhere in town. He once tried to pay court to me, but he is nearly forty years of age, and quite unpleasant. And he is one of those alphas who are far too full of themselves.”

I tried not to think that I was less than three years short of that same milestone, though it did not help when Cas shot me a knowing look. Mind-reading as usual!

“Mr. William Montpensier is, then the older brother?” Cas asked.

“Yes, she said. “Hugh is full eight years younger. I understand that their mother had ten children, but they were the only two that survived.”  
   
“How old are you yourself, may I ask?” Cas asked.  
   
“Twenty-two”, our guest said.  
   
Cas hesitated.  
   
“Miss Owen”, he said carefully, “I must ask you several questions about the incidents concerning your friend. Some may seem irrelevant, some plain impertinent, but if we are to help you we must have all the facts. Now, when was the first incident that concerns you?”

II

The lady extracted a small diary from her bag. My opinion of her rose somewhat; I admire organized people, especially living as I did with a human tornado!  
   
“March the eleventh”, she said. “It seemed so trivial at the time. Amongst the letters sent to the house was one covering in some sort of chemical or other. Mabel of course checked the letters, and later that day found her hand stained all yellow. The odd thing was was that the letter was supposed to be for next door, number eight.”  
   
“Did you keep the letter?” Cas asked.  
   
“Mabel did”, our visitor said. “I have an interest in chemistry, however, so I borrowed it and took it to my laboratory for testing. The chemical is harmless, and the stain faded before the day was out. It was only in light of what happened later that I acted.”  
   
Cas seemed puzzled over something, but eventually asked what that event was.  
   
“It happened exactly one week later”, she said. “We used to have our morning papers delivered, but the local shop had some boys who were terribly unreliable. So Mabel collected both the papers during her morning walk; she always was an early riser. Sometimes if Mr. Montpensier went in early he would go and collect both, but that was rare. Well, on this day he did so, and he also got his wife’s monthly magazine. Someone had placed a giant spider inside it, one of those that spring up when the book or magazine is opened. It gave him quite a shock.”  
   
He was reading his wife’s magazine, I thought. Odd.  
   
“Does Mrs. Montpensier have a weak heart at all?” Cas asked bluntly. Our guest’s eyes widened.  
   
“I see what you mean”, she said, clearly alarmed. “You are suggesting that someone is trying to scare her to death?”  
   
“Possibly”, Cas said, “although being scared to death is a highly inefficient way of murdering someone. However, it may be a cover for something more direct. Since these incidents always seem to be happening on a Monday, am I to assume that your friend was targeted again one week ago?”  
   
She nodded.  
   
“Again it was something seemingly silly”, she said. “She was resting in the park by the house when someone fired a gun without warning. It caused quite a stir, but by the time a local policeman had arrived, whoever had done it had fled.”  
   
“That sounds very dangerous”, I offered.  
   
“One of those fake guns with exploding caps, the sort children use, was found in the bushes nearby”, she said. “But I was with her at the time, and I am sure that the gunshot was real. My father trained me in using a gun, so I know what one sounds like. That was what caused me to have the first letter tested.”  
   
“And to today’s incident”, Cas said. “It must have been serious indeed to make you come to seek our help.”  
   
She nodded, and extracted a small bottle from her case.  
   
“I do not normally rise before Mabel, but she attended a friend’s party last night, whilst I stayed home with a headache”, she said. “This morning I went downstairs to the breakfast room, and was about to eat when I chanced to look at the glass decanter that contains Mabel’s favourite Madeira. The more I looked, the more I was sure that there was some traces of white powder on the surface.”  
   
“What did you do?” Cas asked.  
   
“I checked with the servants”, she said, and was told that Mabel would not be down for at least another half-hour. Fortunately they keep a spare bottle in the cupboard below the decanter, so I emptied most of the contents away, and kept some which I have brought with me today. Then I took the decanter into the small water closet next door and washes it thoroughly, before refilling it.”  
   
“You acted most sensibly”, Cas praised. “I presume you are on your way to your laboratory in order to test it?”  
   
“I am”, she said, “though I very much fear I know what sort of results I will get.”  
   
I had the same feeling.  
   
+~+~+  
   
I would not normally have described Cas as a man of action – well, not outside the bedroom, at least – but as soon as Miss Owen was gone, he started getting his coat.  
   
“This case is serious?” I asked, following suit.  
   
“Deadly”, he said. “I fear Mrs. Montpensier’ life may be in some danger, although hopefully since the strikes seem thus far to have been one week apart, we may hope for a period of grace before the next attack. Except….”  
   
“Except what?” I asked, worried.  
   
“The criminal will have fully expected their plan this morning to have succeeded, and Mrs. Montpensier to be lying dead at the breakfast table”, he said. “When they find out that she is not, they may fear that someone – quite possibly Miss Owen – knows of their design.”  
   
“She too is in danger?” I gasped.  
   
“Consider the timings”, Cas said. “Allowing for the duration of Miss Owen’s journey, her friend would now be just about finishing her breakfast, and taking a glass of wine to wash it down with. The attacker would surely expect to know of the success or failure of their plan within the next hour or two.”  
   
“But Mr. Montpensier is at work!” I pointed out.  
   
“I did not say that it was the husband”, Cas said. 

+~+~+

The Montpensiers lived in a small but well-kept house in Tavistock Square, a little way south of Euston Railway Station. Our cab drew to a halt outside it, and Cas leapt out almost before it had come to a halt, bouncing up the stairs and rapping sharply on the door. I followed at a slightly more sedate pace, and we were admitted to a small waiting-room whilst a maid took our cards to the lady of the house. 

I have to say that Mrs. Montpensier was not what I was expecting. She was not much older than Miss Owen, but much stouter, almost matronly. She clearly viewed us initially with suspicion, but when Cas explained the purpose of our visit, she smiled.

“Dear Emma”, she said fondly. “She does tend towards the dramatic at times. I am afraid that she has over-reacted to a number of silly pranks, one of which was played on dear Jack.”

“The spider in a magazine destined for your good self”, Cas reminded her. “And the gunshot?”

“That was just one of those child's toys with the caps”, she said scornfully. “I mean, who would wish to harm me? I have nothing to my name except what I have through my marriage, although Jack has provided for me if the worst happens.”

Cas had that irritating look on his face which told me that a) something very important had just been said, and b) there was not a chance in hell that I would ever be able to work out what. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Indeed”, he said. “In this case, I think that you are right, Mrs. Montpensier. I shall of course reassure Miss Owen that her fears are groundless.”

Our hostess smiled, and we bowed ourselves out.

III

“So”, I said as we were driven away. “No case after all.”

“Oh, there Is a case”, he said. “The unfortunate Madame Montpensier is indeed in some peril, despite what she says.”

“From whom?” I demanded. 

He smiled and shook his head.

“We are going to Miss Owen's laboratory”, he said. “I would like to know the results of her analysis of that decanter, though I am sure I can guess them well enough. And there is something I need to advise her of, as regards her own safety.”

I glared at him, but clearly he would tell me nothing. As he was now looking at the passing shops, I risked a small pout.

+~+~+

I was not surprised when we met Miss Owen to be told that the powder found in the decanter was a deadly poison, and that there had been sufficient quantities that one glass would probably have killed the person who drank it.

“It was sheer luck that Mabel was not down at her usual time that day”, Miss Owen said, folding her laboratory coat away. “The poison was left long enough that some precipitated to the top of the decanter, and I noticed it.”

“I rather fear that your surmise may have been correct”, Cas told her, “and that your friend is indeed in some danger. Though not of the immediate type. Miss Owen, I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, she said, wide-eyed.

“Send a telegram to your house saying that you have to work exceedingly late, and be sure not to return home until after nine o'clock.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I rather fear that something will happen this evening”, Cas said firmly, “and I do not wish to endanger your life as well. The doctor and I will be at hand to make sure things go well, so do not fear.”

“And Mabel?” she asked.

“Your friend's life is safe tonight”, Cas promised her.

I thought his phrasing odd, but of course, it turned out there was a good reason he spake thus.

+~+~+

It was just approaching a quarter past six. Cas and I were in the small park around which Tavistock Square was formed, watching the cream-coloured house gradually darken in the gathering gloom. A cab pulled up outside and a stout alpha got out.

“The husband?” I asked.

Cas shook his head.

“The brother, William Montpensier”, he said. “Doubtless scrounging another free dinner at his brother's expense.”

“I bet Mrs. Montpensier doesn't like that”, I observed. 

He nodded, and we continued to wait. It was nearly dark half an hour later when a second cab drew up and disgorged another alpha, clearly younger than the first. The husband, presumably. He went into the house and silence returned to our side of the square, broken only slightly by the busy traffic down Woburn Place on the other side of the park. It was surprisingly peaceful for the centre of London.....

Suddenly there was a gunshot from inside the house, and simultaneously a loud scream. Cas immediately charged out from our hiding-place and was at the door in less than thirty seconds, leaving me some way behind. His frantic banging did not immediately summon a footman, but eventually one came and pulled the door back slightly to peer cautiously out at us both. The next moment he was sat on his backside, owing to Cas having forced the door open and run into the hall.

There was a small cluster of staff around one of the doors on the right, and Cas forced his way through them with me following. In the room were the three Montpensiers; Mr. Jack lay sprawled unconscious on the floor, whilst Mr. William was comforting his sister-in-law. Cas muttered something to one of the staff who vanished with an impressive turn of pace, before turning back to the three figures before him.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Mrs. Montpensier looked too stunned to say anything, but her brother-in-law more than made up for things with his own volubility. 

“Hugh tried to shoot her!” he said, sounding incredulous at his own statement. “Came in, went straight to his room and yelled at Boris when I sent him to tell him dinner was ready. Mabel and I went in to see what was wrong, and he accused her of.... of sleeping with another man!”

The woman let out a small moan.

“Calm yourself”, Cas said soothingly. “After all, everything makes sense now.”

“It does?” William Montpensier sounded dubious, to say the least. Cas nodded.

“Of course”, he said. “His suspicions, however unfounded, must have been aroused some weeks back, hence the run of practical jokes – the letter, the spider and the false gunshot - that seemed just that. However, this evening something snapped, and full-blooded murder was attempted.”

I opened my mouth to ask why he had not mentioned the attempted poisoning that morning, but caught his warning look and stopped in time. 

“I have summoned my good friend Sergeant Baldur”, Cas told Mrs. Montpensier, “and I am sure he can deal with matters swiftly and discreetly.”

“That would be good”, she said faintly. Unfortunately she looked up just in time to see two of the footmen carrying her husband's unconscious body out of the room, and promptly fainted herself.

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur arrived in an impressive thirty minutes, and Cas ushered him in to where William Montpensier was sat with his now mercifully conscious sister-in-law. 

“This has been a short but challenging case”, my friend said. “Sergeant, I think it would be a good start if you would arrest the murderers.”

William Montpensier looked up sharply.

“Murderers?” he asked, “Plural?”

“Yes”, Cas said. “You. Both of you.”

IV

It was true at that moment that you could have cut the silence in that room with a knife. As Cas had forewarned me, my hand tightened on the revolver in my pocket. I did not want to ruin another jacket by firing through it, but I would.

William Montpensier laughed.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Your brother was quite right in his suspicions that his wife was seeing another man”, Cas said smoothly. “The only thing he did not know was that the other man was in fact you. He discovered that at precisely the moment that you shot him.”

“You are mad!”

“The practical jokes were your idea, to suggest that your brother was mentally unbalanced”, Cas continued mercilessly. “That one of them ended up targeting him was unfortunate, but you hoped that anyone who later looked at the case would think that he was trying to draw attention away from himself.”

The alpha had fallen silent. Mrs. Montpensier gulped.

“”Your plans misfired this morning”, Cas said. “As you had hoped, Miss Owen discovered the poison in the decanter and duly had it tested. What you had not bargained for was her bringing us into the case, and when you learnt that I had been brought into the case, you panicked. You sent your brother an anonymous note suggesting his wife's infidelity, which led him as you had hoped to going straight to his study on reaching home. There, you shot him.”

“Lies!” William Montpensier hissed.

Cas produced a bag from under the table he was sat at, and shook out the contents onto the table. It was a pair of silken gloves, but they clearly registered with Mr. Montpensier, who trembled at the sight of them.

“Found in the presence of a witness in your room”, Cas said. “Not only that, but a thread from them was caught in the gun when you fired it.”

Mrs. Montpensier suddenly burst into life.

“You fool!” she snapped at her brother-in-law. “I told you it would never work....”

He silenced her with a slap full across the face, and the next moment Sergeant Baldur had him in cuffs. I stared in astonishment.

+~+~+

“Both had their motives”, Cas said as we walked into our rooms in Baker Street. He wanted his brother's share of the family funds, she wanted him and a better lifestyle that would result from more money. The unfortunate Mr. Hugh Montpensier was just in the way, so they removed him. Two people for whom morality is a dish they have never tried.”

I nodded and sat down on the settee, reaching for my notebook so I could write up the day's strange events.

The next moment I screamed like a girl. A huge black fake spider had bounced up out my notebook and onto the table as soon as I opened it. I glared furiously at Cas.

“April Fool?” he said teasingly.

I growled, and pursued him into the bedroom, determined to make him pay for giving me such a shock.

+~+~+

For the second morning in a row, I woke when my shifting around my bed elicited a sudden pain in my backside. I had been determined the night before to make Cas pay for that spider trick, but somehow it had ended up with my begging for sex and his teasing me for what had seemed like an eternity before suddenly taking me hard and fast. I groaned as I tried to find a comfortable position, only to realize to my surprise that I was alone. 

I sat up carefully, confused. Because Mrs. Harvelle and her staff knew not to enter our rooms in the mornings for anything short of a fire or a passing apocalypse, Cas had taken to staying with me most nights, unless one or other of us was ill or away for some reason, and it seemed odd to wake up without him. I blinked blearily around the room.....

Cas was standing by the window. Thankfully the curtains were still closed, though from the faint light filtering around the edges it had to be morning. I say thankfully because he was wearing my favourite pair of panties, and absolutely nothing else.

Getting a sudden erection whilst your backside is still aching from the night before is exceedingly painful, I discovered. He looked across at me and smirked.

“Would you like me to kiss it better?” he rumbled. 

I nodded weakly, and turned onto my side, presuming that he was going to apply some unguent to my abused backside. He got onto the bed behind me, but before I could react he had folded that impossibly flexible body right over me and was sucking me off. My eyes widened, and I let out the sort of noise usually associated with mating walruses and severely malfunctioning machinery, my body shaking as he quite literally sucked the orgasm out of me. I came violently, my eyes watering at the effort and my body totally wrecked.

“Good, you are up”, he said calmly, getting up and walking over to the door, still wearing only those silken panties. “Breakfast is ready in the main room. I will see you there – unless you would like me to eat your food as well?”

The man was truly evil! 

“Cas?” I whined piteously. “Please?”

+~+~+

I had breakfast in bed that morning, fed to me by my own personal angel. Sometimes my life was verging on the passable, really.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, the body count is rather more than one.....


	6. Case 58: The Usual Suspects (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as ‘the Bishopsgate Jewel case’. Originally I titled this ‘Give Us A Clue’, but my publishers thought that inappropriate for some reason. No sense of humour, some people!

I

There was often an element of the outré in many of the cases that Cas undertook, but surely few were stranger than the Bishopsgate Jewel Case. It began in East End of London, and ended in an English country house where what happened was so bizarre, I withheld publication because I honestly believed that people would think I was making the whole thing up! Fortunately the ‘reappearance’ of the jewel, and the current holder’s willingness to recognize Cas’ role in what happened, has decided me that this most bizarre of case should be added to the Castiel Canon.  
   
It was an early May day in ‘Eighty-Nine when, unusually, I breakfasted alone. A great-uncle of Cas’ on his mother's side of the family had died, and as he had been inconsiderate enough to live in the distant Scottish county of Clackmannanshire, Cas had unwillingly agreed to spend two nights on sleeper trains, attending the funeral on the intervening day. He would be back in King’s Cross in two hours, and I planned on meeting him there, then bringing him back to Baker Street to celebrate his return. 

A pair of white lace panties might or might not be involved in that process.

I had taken the whole day off, as I fully expected – and hoped – not to be in any state for work later. I could possibly have done without Mrs. Harvelle’s raised eyebrows or her daughter’s smirk as I left Baker Street, although to be fair, she had already summoned me a cab – I had been too much of a dither to plan that far ahead – so I just smiled in gratitude and promptly fell over my feet as I tried to operate the complex mechanics of 221B’s front door. It was a little unfair of both ladies to snigger at that point, and I all but fell down my steps as I tried to escape with my dignity intact, though I suspected that it would not be intact for long. At least I hoped not!  
   
The roads seemed even worse than usual, and I began to fret as we progressed pathetically slowly towards King’s Cross Station. Heavens, I could probably get out and walk faster! At last however we drew up outside the terminus, and I scrambled up the steps and onto the concourse. There was one of those modern display boards with departures and arrivals on it, and I scanned it anxiously for the train from Edinburgh.  
   
Arrived. Ten minutes ago. My heart sank.  
   
“Hullo, Dean.”  
   
I spun round, and sure enough, there was the scruffy blue-eyed genus, smiling warmly at me. God, I wanted to badly to kiss him, even though we had been apart for barely two days. And then he uttered the words I so badly wanted to hear.  
   
“I booked the same hotel room from when I first came to London, back in ‘Seventy-Six”, he smiled. “Care to see if either of us has the same energy levels as men in their early twenties?”  
   
Hell yes!  
   
+~+~+  
   
The hotel had definitely been improved since our last visit, I thought as I stared around our room. A repainting job, better furniture, some good quality pictures on the wall.....

All right, that happened later. All I saw of the room was a brief flash of white before I heard Cas locking the door behind me, and bodily throwing me onto the bed, glaring at me as if it was somehow my fault that he had been deprived of sex with me for the past two days. Hell, I could still feel the burn from his rough love-making before he had left for the station to go North, and the love-bite he had bitten into my neck like some evil vampire. I may have asked for it – all right, I had begged – but the thing was the size of the Isle of Wight!

I barely managed to get my trousers off before he was totally naked, and scrambling up onto the bed, working my cock loose of my underpants. My eyes widened as I realized his intention; this time, he meant to be on the receiving end. Though I had no time to voice any opinions on the matter, as he was already easing down onto my cock – bastard must have prepared himself on the train down, as he was never normally this loose – and within seconds he was fully impaled on me, groaning pleasurably. I grabbed his Hips of Doom and held on for dear life.

“Dean!” he snarled. “Move!”

I was not in much of a position to comply, but did my best, and I knew that I had found his prostate when his head rolled backwards and he let out a fierce growl. I thrust into him even deeper, and he thrust back down in response, driving both of us rapidly closer towards our climaxes. I came first, but was still pumping into him when he arched his back and erupted, his come splattering between us. It was a glorious sight, and I wished technology had advanced far enough for me to capture that moment in a photograph, so I would not have to rely on my memory for the image of a totally wrecked angel. 

He extracted himself from me and cleaned us both us before slipping down beside me.

“Your fault”, he said casually. “You know that I don't cope well when deprived of your body for any length of time.”

“Better tell your relatives to move closer to London before they peg out, then”, I muttered sleepily, pulling him into a cuddle. “Rest now.”

“Yes”, he said. “”You'll need your strength for your turn, later.”

My eyes opened wide at that. Shit!  
   
+~+~+  
   
We were riding back to Baker Street (a very uncomfortable ride for me; I was sure the roads had been smoother on the way up) when Cas surprised me (no, not like that, although it is good to know that it not only my mind that seems to prefer the gutter!).  
   
“I have been engaged on a case”, he said.  
   
I turned to him, and winced. Sudden movement made parts of me screech in protest, even if my whole body was glowing in that stupefied post-coital burn he always gave me. Of course bearing in mind that both of us had batted and bowled, he seemed almost unaffected, except for a satisfied smirk. That was unfair!  
   
“How?” I asked. “You were only gone two days.”  
   
He smiled.  
   
“I went to the dining-car for breakfast just after six”, he said, “and met a Reverend John Green. He is the rector of St. Botolph without Bishopsgate, in the east of the city. Have you seen the papers this morning?”  
   
I blushed slightly.  
   
“I have not”, I said. “I, um, left in rather a hurry this morning.”  
   
His eyes twinkled in understanding, and I gave silent thanks that he loved me enough not to tease me about that.  
   
“Two days ago, workers undertaking improvements on the Great Eastern Railway’s tracks into Liverpool Street Station uncovered a most amazing find”, he said. “They were knocking down a house adjoining both the line and the church when they discovered a metal box, which had been hidden beneath a stone slab. A Bible enclosed with it dated the item from almost two hundred years ago, possibly from the year of the Glorious Revolution. It is known, indeed, that the family who owned the house back then, the Fontenoys, were Catholics, and fled into exile along with King James the Second and Seventh that momentous year.”  
   
I nodded. At least I knew my history.  
   
“The jewel found inside the box is similar in some ways to the famous Alfred Jewel, though slightly larger. Ornate, engraved gold and silver around a large blue sapphire, it is worth many thousands of pounds at least, regardless of its history. And of course, where there is money, there are people who claim ownership of it.”  
   
“Oh”, I said. “Starting with the Church?”  
   
Cas nodded.  
   
"The Church of England advances a claim that, as the family later sold the land and all things on it back to them whilst they were in exile, the jewel is theirs”, Cas explained. “There is Catholic branch of the family who have since returned to England, and a Protestant branch of closer descent who remained here; two members of each. And not forgetting the current owner of the property who purchased it from the Church only recently, a Doctor Hebediah Black. However, the Church is disputing whether he purchased the rights to what was under the house as well as in it.”  
   
“It sounds a veritable mess”, I said. “And they expect you to sort it out?”  
   
“I am invited down to Doctor Black’s country retreat, Wetherly in Devonshire, this weekend.”  
   
“Oh.” My face fell. At least until I caught the glint in those blue eyes.  
   
“Bastard!” I muttered.  
   
“Of course you are invited too”, he smiled. “Did I forget to mention that?”  
   
I was so annoyed that I resolved not to put out for him for some considerable time. Ten, twenty… maybe even thirty.

Seconds.  
   
He chuckled at me, and the last of my dignity died an unmourned death.  
   
II  
   
The journey to Wetherly was undertaken mostly via the offices of the London and South Western Railway Company, with a single change at Exeter. The journey across the top of the moors was breathtakingly beautiful, and we alighted at North Tawton Station, where the doctor’s carriage met us and took us the last four miles to the house, some little way south of the village of Spreyton. We reached our destination shortly after five o'clock.  
   
Wetherly was…. well, the phrase ‘Gothic monstrosity' was invented for a reason, and this was a supremely terrible example of what architects could do when drunk and/or not paid enough. Or possibly too much; the building was some way beyond hideous. It was as if some Bavarian castle had been lifted and dumped in the middle of the English countryside, and then someone had come along and tried to make it look even worse. My eyes hurt as I stared in horror.  
   
“Look at it this way”, Cas said reassuringly. “It has to be better on the inside than on the outside.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
As it turned out, the inside had a few things that did surprise me. One was a local policeman, Constable Victor Plum, whose name I immediately though appropriate not just because of his choice of shirt colour, but because of his ruddy complexion. He looked rather out of breath, which I later thought odd as I found he had arrived there some six hours before us.  
   
The second thing that surprised me was Doctor Hebediah Black. Who was missing, presumed dead.  
   
+~+~+  
   
Even such a poor detective as myself could quickly see that the middle-aged constable was decidedly nervous. As well he might be, I supposed.  
   
“Doctor Black asked me to come here at ten this morning”, he said. “He had brought the Bishopsgate Jewel down from London with him, and was expecting all the various other people who had a claim to it for the weekend.”  
   
“Are they already here?” Cas asked. 

“They all arrived before lunch, as he requested”, the policeman said. “I attended, and it was a strained affair, I can tell you, people sniping at each other right, left and centre. After lunch they all went to their rooms, presumably, and the doctor said he had to write a letter, and would talk to me in under half an hour. I went to the library to pass the time.”  
   
I looked around the small room that the constable had purloined in which to talk to us. Even here, the mauve wallpaper and burgundy-stained wood made me feel more than a little nauseous. I hoped that when the person responsible for this atrocity died, they went to a Hell designed especially for them. Though I doubted that even Hell had an architect this bad. Yet.  
   
“The doctor’s study is quite close to the library”, the policeman continued, “and both are at the back of the house. As you may have seen, the house is set in a small dean, which means that that part is always quite dark. That is why, when I heard a loud cry at just after four o'clock, I immediately grabbed a candlestick and hurried out into the corridor between the two rooms. There was no-one else about, which I thought odd, but I was focussed on obtaining entry into the study, and the door would not give. It turned out someone had moved a heavy bench against the other side, and I was eventually able to push to back enough to gain entry. And inside, I found – nothing!”  
   
I stared at him in surprise.  
   
“Nothing?” I asked.  
   
“Not at first”, he admitted. “When I searched the room later, I found two things; some threads from the grey scarf that Mr. Black wore, and a small blood stain on the floor by the fire that must have been fresh, otherwise the heat would have dried it.”  
   
“What about the servants?” Cas asked.  
   
“The whole bunch of them are in the clear”, the constable said mournfully. “The annual fair’s visiting North Tawton, and the doctor gave them all the day off up to six this evening provided everything was ready for his guests, food included. It was just him and the Famous Five.”  
   
“Tell us about them”, Cas said, sitting back in his chair. How he could relax in such an awful room silently amazed me.  
   
“As I said, they represent the five other claimants to the Jewel”, he said. “Starting with the Church, the Reverend John Green represents St. Botolph’s, and is very High Church, the sort who would rain down blood and thunder on his enemies. An alpha, fifty-four, and always wears his dog-collar and full vestments. Not so much holier-than-thou as holier than just about everybody!”  
   
“Then there’s the split between the Catholic and Protestant descendants of the Fontenoys, both sides claiming the Jewel as theirs, of course. Up for the Catholics we have Mrs. Patricia Peacock and her daughter, Miss Josephine Scarlett. Mrs. Peacock is on her fourth or fifth husband – even the official records are unclear, and has always done well out of her marriages. All her previous husbands are dead, two in somewhat mysterious circumstances according to the notes the doctor kept, which I read later. Forty-four but doesn’t look it, and I already pity husband number five or six, whoever he is out there!”  
   
I smiled at that.  
   
“Her daughter, Miss Scarlett, is similar in a lot of ways”, the policeman said thoughtfully. “I observed them at dinner, and the word that struck me about her was ‘sly’. I think she would be just as successful at getting what she wants, and probably even less scrupulous than her dear mama. Assuming that’s possible!”  
   
“The Protestant side of the family is represented by Mrs. Diane White and Colonel Jack Mustard. She is a cook for a family in London, which is a little unusual as she has sufficient income from her late husband who died at sea. ‘Homely’ is the word I’d use to describe her, but the way she looked at Mrs. Peacock when they were talking about religion at dinner – well, if looks could have killed…. She is fifty-two, by the way.  
   
“Jack Mustard, thirty-eight and an alpha, strikes me as one of those military types who do not do well in peacetime. The doctor’s file on him was all ifs, buts and maybes, but it seems he’s been involved with some dealings that were borderline illegal. His father James is in the government, and seems to have used his influence to protect the wayward son on at least one occasion.”  
   
“And yourself?” Cas asked, to my surprise.  
   
“Sir?”  
   
“The doctor invites a local constable to dinner, refuses to discuss matters with him until later, then disappears without a trace”, Cas said. “Oh no, come, constable. You have a connection here in some way.”  
   
Plum went bright red (sorry!).  
   
“I can trust you, sirs”, he said quietly, “because I know your reputation. The doctor's uncle, Mr. Petroc Trevelyan, had an affair with a local woman, and I was the, um, result. He and she both died soon after, and the doctor, he raised me as a cousin, helping me get a job here some time back.”  
   
He trailed off, clearly embarrassed.  
   
“Well, we must deal with the present, not the past”, Cas said firmly. “Though I rather think that in this case, the past may have a role to play as well. We shall take in the scene of the possible crime.”  
   
III  
   
The study. Yellow wallpaper. Bright yellow wallpaper. With a fuchsia border. I swallowed hard.

The only thing that distracted me from this horror was Colonel Jack Mustard. Who was dead. And even I could see why; a length of lead piping lay bloodied and slightly bent next to his cool body.

“Dead for some hours”, I said, “most probably not long after lunch. Killed by a blow to the back of the head.”

“Indeed”, Cas said gravely.

We both looked at him in confusion.

“A single blow”, he explained. “Not normally enough to fell a man, unless it was struck in exactly the right place. Therefore we should consider someone with at least a degree of medical knowledge.”

I thought of the vanished Doctor Black, and a horrible feeling began to creep over me. He couldn't have.... could he?

+~+~+

The kitchen. Functional, although the dark brown walls made it seem incredibly unwelcoming. And the dead body slumped face down into an apple-pie – what a waste! - didn't exactly help matters.

“Mrs. White!” the policeman exclaimed. 

Again, it would not have taken a great detective to piece together what had happened here. The dagger protruding from the dead woman's back was definitely a clue. I quickly examined the body, and sighed.

“As with the colonel, dead for a few hours”, I said. “This is horrible!”

It got worse.

+~+~+

The ball-room. I would presume that someone thought that sky blue walls with clouds would have given the place a certain air. It had, though probably not what the designer had intended, as the room felt bitterly cold.

The dead body slumped over the bar didn't help matters much, either. I looked at the stunning red dress and made a guess.

“Miss Scarlett?” I ventured. The policeman nodded.

Whoever was doing this certainly was not trying to hide the means of death. A yellow rope hung loosely around the dead woman's neck, and I could see the marks where it had been pulled tight. Again, she had been dead for some little time, though possibly killed after the others.

“I should be getting back to the station to report all this”, Constable Plum said, looking worried. “But I fear....”

He stopped. We all knew pretty well what he feared.

+~+~+

The billiard-room. For a game played with white balls. And the room was like being inside an igloo. The only bit of colour was the blue dress of the now almost inevitable dead body draped across the billiard-table. Mrs. Peacock had been shot at very close range with a revolver, which lay on the table next to her. A quick examination suggested that she had been killed before the others, but not by much. It was a massacre.

The policeman looked at his watch. 

“The servants should be getting back any minute”, he said. “I wonder where the vicar ended up?”

+~+~+

The lounge. And sure enough, collapsed into one of the bright green – luridly bright green! - chairs was the Reverend Green, a bloodied spanner lying casually next to him. I ignored the paisley lemon and pink wallpaper as best I could, but could only determine that he had died at much the same time as the others.

Our investigations were interrupted by the sound of the front door, and we almost ran out of the room to find the servants returning home from the fair. Cas and Constable Plum took them into the dining-room (where mercifully there were no more dead bodies) and explained what had happened, then spent some time calming them down. It was arranged that he and the constable would go to the village, Cas to send a telegram and the policeman to report the killings, then Cas would return here. In the meantime I had to check upstairs for any more corpses. Such was my life!

Mercifully the first floor proved corpse-free, and as returned in time for a late dinner, whose quality impressed me given how distrait the staff must have been. Though I did not sleep well that night, and not just because I was deprived of my usual human octopus in bed with me. Having five dead bodies in the house was decidedly off-putting.

+~+~+

Constable Plum returned the following morning.

“The bigwigs down in Plymouth want me to go down and report to them in person”, he said dolefully. “They say this is no case for the Professor.”

“Pardon?” I said.

“My nickname”, he said ruefully. “I worked in Okehampton before coming here, and they already had a sergeant called Victor, so with my spectacles and the medical knowledge I got from the doctor, I became 'Professor Plum'. Some joker in county put it on my file, apparently.”

“Of course you must go”, Cas said, “and the sooner the better.” At the policeman's raised eyebrow he went on, “delaying such a request would only make them think ill of you.”

“That is true”, he admitted. “What are your plans, gentleman?”

“We shall have an early lunch, and then return to London”, Cas said. “There is little else we can do here.”

The policeman nodded, and left us. 

“Finding the killer here is going to be hard”, I said. “We have five dead bodies and a missing homeowner.”

We were in the hall – only moderately atrocious orange wallpaper with black and white fleur-de-lis – and he smiled at me. Then he went across to what looked like a cupboard door, and ushered me over. Once I was there, he opened the door.

“Not again!”

There was another dead body inside, dressed rather fittingly like a funeral director. He had clearly been dead since at least the day before, judging from the colour of his skin alone. A bloodied candlestick lay next to him.

“Doctor Hebediah Black?” I ventured. 

Cas nodded. 

“Fingerprints?” I suggested. Cas had tested all the other weapons last night, but not found a single print on any of them. He shook his head.

“I would suggest that that is the same candlestick that was used by Constable Plum when he entered the study yesterday”, Cas said. “And his will, I guarantee, be the only fingerprints on it.”

“But who killed them all?” I asked, totally confused.

IV

“Constable Plum”, Cas said calmly.

I stared at him in shock.

“But why?” I managed at last. “I mean, what motive could he have had?”

“One of the oldest in the world”, Cas said. “Love of money. We know that Doctor Black had no children, so the constable was his nearest relative. The two were close, and possibly in time the constable would have inherited Wetherly, with all its architectural atrocities. He may have been prepared to wait, but land is not what it once was, and the appearance of the Bishopsgate Jewel decided him. The only problem was that there were other claimants to it, and it is my guess that his relation was prepared to compromise by selling the stone and splitting the proceeds.”

I stared in shock.

“He plans it exceptionally well”, Cas said. “He knows that in major cases, the local policeman is always summoned to the county constabulary office, which this being Devonshire, is in the port of Plymouth. Where there are several fast ships going to the United States and elsewhere.”

“He will get away!” I hissed.

“That was why I sent the telegram yesterday”, Cas explained. “Balthazar has two men shadowing him all the way. The moment he tries to board a ship, he will be arrested.”

I shook my head, trying to grasp who would kill six people like this.

“No-one will believe me if I publish this case!” I moaned. “I mean, it is just incredible!”

“Indeed”, Cas said. “It was Constable Plum, with the rope, lead piping, spanner, dagger, revolver and candlestick, in the ball-room, study, lounge, kitchen, billiard-room and hall.”

I glared at him.

+~+~+

He was, of course, proved right as ever. The murderous policeman was arrested boarding a ship for New York, and his ambitions were ended by a rope similar to the one he used on one of his victims. The Bishopsgate Jewel passed to a distant cousin of Doctor Black, who on his death years later bequeathed it to the British Museum, and also left me a note asking me to publish this strangest of cases. Which I have so done.

+~+~+

Next time, a hunt for vengeance brings us to one of the oddest couples I have ever met.....


	7. Case 59: Death’s Door (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously unpublished, mentioned elsewhere as ‘the case of Vigor, the Hammersmith Wonder’.

I

Cas would have had to have been a terrible consulting detective not to have realized just how shaken I had been by the discoveries of our Hampshire case. It was usually my policy to try to ignore these blips in my life, and move on to get as far away from them as possible, however unhealthy that was.

My friend, of course, had other ideas. SHortly after our return from Devonshire, he told me that he had invited Mrs. Warburton to Baker Street. I was initially annoyed, but I swiftly saw his point. Matters had to be resolved so that we could both get on with our lives, and do what was right for our son. It turned out to be a short but productive meeting; I was able to allay any fears she might have entertained about my demanding my rights, and we agreed that I should be allowed to place some money in a bank account for Ben's birthday and Christmas each year, to be accessible by him after his twenty-first birthday. When she gave him that money, she would tell him the whole truth, and let him decide how to proceed on his own. She left - as things turned out, I never saw her again - but I felt infinitely happier that things were now cleared up between us, even if I felt a tinge of regret for the 'loss' of my son.

+~+~+

I was not sulking. I was not!  
   
All right then, I was. But I had good reason  
   
There was a faint knock on my door, and Cas’ voice called out my name. I sighed in a put-upon manner, collected myself, and went to open it. He smiled a little nervously at me, and ushered me over to my usual table.  
   
The reason for my enforced internal exile sat in the famous fireside chair, still looking as if she would bolt at any minute. Miss Mortimeria Peasley was about thirty years of age, and wearing a horrible mauve dress that may have briefly been fashionable in the time of the dinosaurs. Very briefly. She had been such a complete nervous wreck upon her arrival nearly an hour before that Cas had suggested I put down my notepad and adjourn to my room, to let him calm her down. Even his usual magic had taken its time, though the lady now had a determined air about her, as if resolved to say her piece, despite the presence of two Men in the room.  
   
“Doctor Winchester’s notes are of great import in all my cases”, Cas said gravely, possibly stretching the truth somewhat. “They allow me to review what has been told to me, and maybe see things that I may have missed during my meetings with my clients. Now, Miss Peasley, we have discussed your case, and in light of all you have told me, I think it important that I run through everything to make sure I have all the facts. Is that acceptable?”  
   
Good Lord, she simpered at him! Sat there trembling like a leaf in December, and she still simpered at him. I bit back a growl.  
   
“An important fact in this case appears to be your particular and interesting ancestry”, Cas began. “Your great-uncle, one Stephen Mortimer, was immensely rich, and also a little eccentric, if I may be so bold. He had developed a great love for his family name, and it worried him that he had neither children nor siblings to continue it. He had only one niece, your late mother Mary.”  
   
“Your uncle died shortly after your mother’s marriage, and it was discovered that he had left a very peculiar will. A large sum of money was to be set aside for any children from your mother’s marriage who bore the name ‘Mortimer’. Naturally your father did not wish to forfeit the right of his children bearing his name, but since Mortimer can fortuitously be used as a Christian name, they decided that that was what they would do. Your mother duly gave birth to three sons, but sadly two died in infancy, leaving only your elder brother, an alpha called Mortimer John.”

“Your uncle's will provided large sums for the first three children, regardless of gender or type. This was to prove important, as your mother's next birth, which most sadly claimed her life, was of twins, a girl – your good self – and an omega. Your father very wisely took further legal advice, and hence you became Mortimeria Mary, whilst your younger brother became Mortimer James, commonly Jamie, after your father.”

I wondered if the ‘large sum’ had been enough to compensate for being saddled with such God-awful names. Cas shot me a warning look, and I blushed.

“Your father naturally found the expense of raising three children on his own very heavy”, Cas said, “so when his brother Jacob offered to raise his youngest child for him, he accepted. It is an arrangement that has benefited both parties, although as your uncle lives on the Norfolk coast, you rarely see your twin, which is a pity.”

“Jamie is very.... Forward”, she said, making it sound like her twin brother murdered kittens for a pastime. “Especially for an omega.”  
   
“Neither you nor Jamie have married as yet”, Cas said. “His share of your uncle's estate is administered by his uncle and patron, whilst following the death of your father two years ago, yours are administered by your brother, whom you have hitherto trusted to do right by you. However, certain actions he has undertaken of late have given you cause for concern, which is why you have come to me.”  
   
“Precisely!” she burst out. “Dear Morty has always been extremely careful with money, yet recently he has made several trips to London, and always comes back looking exceptionally pleased with himself.”  
   
I forbore to point out that she herself had come to the English capital.  
   
“Have you discussed your concerns with your younger brother?” he inquired.  
   
“Jamie thinks Morty is not always wise”, she said carefully. “Great-Uncle Stephen had a poor opinion of women and omegas, and instructed that until we reached our thirtieth birthdays, our guardians were to run our inheritance for us, paying us a monthly allowance. Morty, of course, was allowed access to his funds when he reached twenty-one.”

There was a faint note of envy in her voice.  
   
“And he has always paid it on time?” Cas asked.  
   
“Always”, she said. “It is important for dear Jamie, who values his independence possibly a little too much, and I believe may have recently taken up with..... an Alpha.”

Again, she somehow managed to express her complete disapproval of her younger brother's actions. I mean, taking up with an alpha! I smiled into my notepad. 

Cas pressed his long fingers together, and stared at our visitor. I smirked inwardly, and started to count. I had not reached double figures before she burst out.  
   
“Jamie thinks this may have something to do with Jack Horner!”

II  
   
I nearly broke my pencil. Even Cas seemed surprised. Miss Peasley took a deep breath and, thankfully, explained.  
   
“Morty and I live in the Wiltshire town of Devizes”, she said. “About five years ago, whilst Jamie was visiting us, dear Morty became enamoured of a local omega called Philip Horner, except everyone called him Jack. After the nursery rhyme, you see.”  
   
Even I could have worked that one out! And Cas, the bastard, was doing his patented not-smirk again!  
   
“Jamie and I fully expected to have to attend a wedding”, she said, “but Mr. Horner developed an Attachment to the local blacksmith, a Mr. Vulcan Goring.”  
   
“Your blacksmith was called Vulcan”, Cas said, keeping a remarkably straight face. “How unusual.”  
   
“Yes”, she said. “The tallest man you ever did see, nearly seven foot in his boots. He left for London to make his fortune, and Mr. Horner went with him.”  
   
Cas stared at her. Of course it worked.  
   
“I do not think Morty was very happy about how Matters resolved themselves”, she admitted breathlessly. “He has not seen anyone since, except of course for that awful Sellers Female over at Larkwhistle Farm.”  
   
I had not known that the word ‘Female’ could be used so insultingly.  
   
“I presume that, despite his inheritance, your older brother has some sort of employment?” Cas asked.  
   
To my surprise, she blushed.  
   
“He runs a funeral parlour in town, she said, looking everywhere but at either of us. “It is called ‘Death’s Door’.”  
   
My eyes watered with the effort of not laughing. That was seriously bad. Cas shot me a warning look before turning back to our visitor.  
   
“Your case sounds quite intriguing, Miss Peasley”, he told our guest. “I am inclined to accept it. If you leave us a card with your address in Devizes, we shall send you information as soon as we have it.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Regretfully, I shall have to employ the offices of my brother”, Cas said with a sigh. “Doubtless he will want his pound of flesh in return.”  
   
“I am sure that you can do a Portia, and outwit him when he tries”, I said reassuringly.  
   
He quirked an eyebrow at me.  
   
“As I remember”, he said slowly, “Portia was a woman disguised as an alpha. I assure you, Dean, I am one hundred per cent alpha. In fact, I think you may need a little reminding of that.”  
   
I gulped.  
   
“I shall see you when I get back from sending my telegram to Balthazar”, he said, and his voice was already dropping into the happy times growl. “I shall probably be less than ten minutes. Be... prepared!”  
   
I almost fell over my feet as I scrambled to my room, ignoring his chuckle at my over-eagerness. So I was whipped. Or possibly about to be. My manliness was probably sunning itself on a beach in Cornwall, between my dignity and shame. I did not miss any of them.  
   
+~+~+

“Get that thing inside me now!”

I heard a dark chuckle from behind me, and I let out another moan of protest, Cas forcibly taking me was painful enough (although it was the sort of pain I secretly loved), but this was infinitely worse. The teasing way he rubbed his huge cock up and down my crack, muzzling me without ever sealing the deal – it was bloody torture!

“I found a Mr. V. Iden-Goring in a business directory at the post office”, Cas said calmly, as if he was not in the middle of trying to kill me by not having sex with me. I would not have thought that was possible, but I was having to reconsider that belief right now, at least with what little remained of my brain.

“Cas!” I whined piteously. 

“He is the proprietor of Vigor's in Hammersmith, a short tube ride from here”, Cas said, continuing to rut absently against me. What was even worse was that he was at the same time fingering me open, yet showing no inclination to make use of my body. There were definitely tears on the pillow, and they were equally definitely mine.

“We're going round there?” I panted.

And suddenly he was pushing into me without warning, pushing my face into the pillow as he did so. Which was just as well, and the snarling I let out as he hit home was uncontrolled and loud, and even with the relative isolation of our rooms, might have otherwise been heard outside by any unfortunately passing maid. Not by me, of course, as I was too busy fighting his iron grip on my cock, which he eventually released to let me come so forcibly that my whole body shook with the effort. Cas came inside me as I was still finishing, and then slumped inelegantly on top of me. But I could bear the weight.

For Cas, I could bear anything.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“Balthazar has his uses”, Cas said later, and on noting my eye-roll added, “despite appearances. I rather suspected that Mr. Peasley’s recent trips to London have taken him to the home of his former prospective mate, and I would like to know more before we go marching in. Especially when someone is seven foot tall.”  
   
I had no doubts that, seven foot or not, Cas could easily deal with the man named after an ancient god. My man may have been named for an angel, but he had a degree of flexibility which, coupled with his fighting prowess, made him unbeatable when we were….  
   
“You are thinking about sex again, aren’t you, Dean?”  
   
Damnation!

“Not just now”, I muttered. “I do not think that my body could cope with another round.”

He stood up and walked over to the door to his room, then turned and grinned at me.

“Want to bet?” he smirked.

Honestly, the things I did for England!  
   
III  
   
Balthazar Novak sent some files round two days later, and Cas spent the whole day perusing them, whilst I dealt with my patients, who seemed to be even more trying than usual. I silently thanked God that people had to pay for the privilege of imagining they had some rare ailment, otherwise I would have been rushed off my feet.  
   
Cas decided that we would go and see the Hammersmith smith a further three days after the files arrived, which again seemed an unusual delay, though I supposed he knew best. Though I was a little surprised that he arranged to meet with the man at a fairly good quality hotel not far from his smithy.  
   
I have to say that, of all the odd couples I have seen in my time, Vulcan Iden-Goring and Philip Horner took the prize by some distance. The alpha blacksmith was a very solid seven foot tall, not willowy or unsure of himself as so many overly tall people tended to be, but an assured lump of solid muscle. I had no doubt that, if he were so minded and Cas had not been there, he could probably beat me to a pulp without so much as breaking a sweat. And bury the body afterwards.  
   
I had wondered at Philip Horner, an un-mated omega living with an alpha, though on meeting him I soon discovered why. The man was twenty-four, yet not presented, which meant that he was not yet ready to mate. This was very rare; less than one in ten thousand omegas suffered from Van Deyer's Syndrome, which deferred presentation until around their twenty-fifth birthdays. He was a clear two foot shorter than his friend, blond where the smith was dark, and I thought involuntarily of a tug-boat bringing in a huge ship. Though from the adoring looks that the giant kept sending his smaller mate and the smiles he kept getting in return, I knew that their relationship was a sound one.  
   
Introductions were made, and Cas suggested we adjourn to the restaurant, where a light meal was served. Both men were clearly nervous, and sat very close together, holding hands.  
   
“Why Vigor?” Cas asked suddenly. “Your own name was surely highly suitable for that of a blacksmith?”  
   
The tall man reddened, and the omega placed a reassuring hand on his muscled arm.  
   
“There was already a blacksmith using the name down in Fulham”, he said, “and we decided not to risk confusion. Besides, everyone round here knows Vulcan.”  
   
How could they miss him, I wondered.  
   
“Tell me about Mr. Mortimer John Peasley”, Cas asked Mr. Horner.  
   
The omega blushed, and I tensed as the giant alpha pulled him close and glared at us both.  
   
“None of your business!” he almost snarled.  
   
“If you wish my help in remedying the situation, then it becomes my business”, Cas said firmly. “Come. All I ask is the truth.”  
   
The two looked at each other, then Mr. Horner whispered something to his huge friend, who relaxed a little.  
   
“We came here five years ago”, Mr. Horner began. “Vul only had a share in the business he worked at back in Wiltshire, so we had to start from nothing. For three years he worked at a smithy in Chelsea, but then that closed.”  
   
“Did you also work?” Cas asked. The omega shook his head.  
   
“I tried out as a clerk at one place”, he said. “One of the alphas hit on me the first day I was there. I went home for lunch and told Vul, who wasn’t exactly happy. He made me quit that afternoon, and put the man in hospital for four weeks.”  
   
“Pip is mine!” the alpha said fiercely, wrapping a huge arm around the omega and staring very hard at us both. I resisted the urge to back away.  
   
“Then the chance to buy Vul’s shop came up”, Mr, Horner resumed, sending his mate an adoring look from inside his huge arms. “We had saved some money, but we had to take out three loans to afford it. It seemed like a good move at the time; the business has gone from strength to strength, and we managed to pay off the smallest loan recently.”  
   
He hesitated.  
   
“Then Mr. Peasley happened”, Cas said. 

The omega sighed unhappily. “He did not take my rejection of his suit well back in Devizes, especially as it seems that he had told his family that all was going well. Six weeks ago he came into the smithy, and announced that he had bought out the two remaining loans, and was calling them in once the paperwork had gone through. Vul will be ruined.”  
   
“I will see that man at the bottom of the Thames before I let him lay a finger on Pip!” the alpha growled. This time I did shuffle backwards slightly, to my friend’s evident amusement.  
   
“We must do our best to dissuade him”, he said.  
   
“Dissuade Mortimer Peasley?” the omega said incredulously. “The man has hunted me down across England, and is prepared to ruin me and the man I love to get his way. I cannot let him….”  
   
“Then let me help you”, Cas said.  
   
“How?” the huge alpha asked warily. Cas smirked.  
   
“I have my methods”, he said. “First I will appeal to Mr. Peasley’s better nature.”  
   
“You’d have to find it first!” Mr. Horner scoffed.  
   
“Well, I do have a contingency plan as well”, Cas smiled. “But I always like to give people a chance to show their better side. If he chooses not to, he will deserve what happens as a result!”  
   
We all looked at him in confusion.  
   
IV  
   
Cas promised the odd couple that we would visit them in their smithy, not far from the hotel, once we had seen the villainous Mr. Peasley. He duly arrived one hour later, and I have to say, he was everything I had expected, up to and including the oily black moustache that, incredibly, he actually twirled whilst Cas talked. He smiled unpleasantly as my friend explained the situation, and offered to buy the loans off him.  
   
“No”, he said firmly. “The transfer paperwork for the second loan will be complete in two weeks’ time – the original holder was damned inconsiderate enough to go and die on me at precisely the wrong moment - upon which occasion I shall call in both debts. And that is an end to it.”  
   
“I rather feared that you might prove a little unreasonable”, Cas said, “so I sought out someone who could add their voice to my request. Your sibling.”  
   
Mr. Peasley uttered a nasal laugh.  
   
“I hardly think Merry can persuade me to have one rasher of bacon less for breakfast, sir”, he said firmly.  
   
Cas stood up and walked to the door, which he opened. The loom in his face when he turned back to us was positively mischievous.  
   
“Not that sibling!”  
   
Our unwanted guest suddenly looked like he was in dire need of his own particular line of services. And no wonder, for the man that walked through the door was about as far as was physically from his twin sister. Mr. Mortimer James Peasley may have been an omega, but he was built on similar lines to his soon-to-be brother-in-law, and the look on his face was positively feral.  
   
“Morty!” he bellowed, and every head in the room turned to look at us. “What have you done?”  
   
“Jamie….”  
   
“Don’t you Jamie me!” he snapped, advancing on him. The alpha sidled quickly round the table, keeping it between him and the approaching terror. “This gentleman tells me that you have been using Our Money to your own ends. Is this true?”  
   
“No!” I did not know alphas could reach such a high pitch (all right, apart from myself at certain times).  
   
“Yes”, Cas said firmly. “Though he was extremely foolish so to do, I may add, and it will certainly be to your ultimate benefit, Mr. James.”  
   
Heavens, the omega simpered at him! It was like he was wearing some sort of cologne that attracted any passing female or omega!

“What do you mean?” he asked, still keeping an eye on his nervous brother.

“The late Stephen Mortimer may have been a little eccentric”, Cas said with a smile, “but he was also a man of stern moral rectitude.” He turned back to the moustached villain across the table. “It is a pity you did not stop to check that particular part of his will?”

“What part?” the alpha asked dubiously.

“Stephen Mortimer left a powerful disincentive against your sort of character”, Cas said with a smile. “His will clearly states – and I have a copy here, if you wish to examine it – that if any of the recipients of his largess were to indulge in any sharp practices that lead to others suffering financial loss or hardship, then not only does their flow of funds stop, but they must pay back all moneys they have received thus far.”

The alpha's face went pale, but he rallied.

“You are lying!" he hissed.

“The willful attempt to ruin another man”, Cas said smoothly. “And his business. There are two policemen waiting outside for you, Mr. Peasley, and they have more than a few questions for you. It is a pity that you did not accept my kind offer, especially as you will now need every piece of spare cash for your legal affairs, but as your finances will soon be in the hands of your uncle Jacob, I am sure he will prove more amenable. Good day.”

Cas ushered me and our omega guest from the room, and as we left two policemen entered. Cas indicated the alpha still behind the table on the far side of the room, and we all left smiling.

+~+~+

There is little more to be said. Vulcan Iden-Goring and Philip Horner were married when the latter presented some nine months later, and a further nine months after that, their first son was born, an alpha whom they named James, after both his uncle and the man who had helped save their business. I know that Cas gave them a substantial gift for the boy for when he was older, which sadly again reminded both of us of our own recent losses. But we had each other, and that was more than enough.

+~+~+

In our next adventure, there is the danger of someone going completely off the rails......  
 


	8. Case 60: Mummy Dearest (1889)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Previously published as 'The Adventure of the Engineer's Thumb'.

I

After our trip to west London we had a run of minor and fairly trivial cases, none of which were worth publishing, and I found my mind wandering again. My medical work helped to distract me a little, but I found it more difficult than usual to write up my notes from my friend's cases, and both my publishers and the Strand magazine voiced their displeasure at the reduction in my output.

It was only later in the year, and with the benefit of hindsight, that I realized my beloved Cas had done even more for me than I had realized at the time. That summer he refused any case that would have taken him away from London, and seemed uneasy if he had to leave me for any reason. It was not that he distrusted me in any way, but rather that he seemed to need my presence. It went so far that he preferred reading on the couch with his head against my legs rather than in his own chair. I loved him, and I found this rather endearing.

What I found less endearing was that, during our couplings, Cas now increasingly seemed to be holding back, as if he felt that being too rough with me might break me in some way. As I have (reluctantly) admitted, he was smaller and shorter but undeniably stronger than me, and I loved feeling that raw power, knowing that I was willingly helpless against it. After yet another gentle evening together, I may or may not have expressed a wish to see his inner savage once more.

What do they say as to being careful what you wish for...?

+~+~+

Cas had gone out on this particular evening, and had not returned when I went to bed. I was not yet asleep when I heard him come in, and felt a little disgruntled that he went straight to his own room. I pulled a dressing-gown over my naked form and left to see if he was ready for some fun and games. 

I was barely in his room when I realized, a fraction too late as usual, that he had been waiting for me behind the door. A cloth was wrapped very firmly around my mouth, and I had barely a second to think 'chloroform' before I passed out and slumped to the floor.....

I came to some little time later, and very quickly realized just how much trouble I was in. My hands were tied to the bedstead, which was not unusual, but Cas had covertly added a long leather strap over the bed-frame with a loop at each end, and my legs were held vertical in these, exposing my entrance. Oh, and there was a dildo inside me. My eyes watered.

I heard a dark chuckle from across the room, and scowled at the source – and I swear, every bit of blood in my body rushed to the middle! Cas was dressed as a Red Indian! Warpaint, feathers, even a tomahawk attached to the belt of his short skirt. And those muscles.....

“You wanted to see the savage in me, Dean”, he growled in his Sex Voice. “You really should be careful what you wish for, you know.”

He had got between my legs on the end of the bed, and gently withdrew the dildo, replacing it with his fully-erect cock. I sighed in a mixture of ecstasy and pain as he got fully seated, but my position meant I was unable to move at all, and the evil creature was deliberately aiming straight for my prostate. Which had to mean the bastard had gone and bought a new dildo, as our usual one teased my prostate all the time. I groaned as I felt the pressure building in me, the groaned again when I felt the familiar touch of cold steel at the base of my cock. I whined, but it did no good.

“Cas!”

“He chuckled darkly, and pummeled my prostate even harder. I felt tears in my eyes as my cock strained at the ring, but it held firm, even when he reached forward and tweaked my nipples. He continued to pound me for what seemed like an eternity, before finally pulling out and re-inserting the dildo. Then he stood astride me, his muscular form towering above me. I looked up through my tears, and swallowed hard.

He too was wearing a cock-ring. So that was why he hadn't come! He grinned evilly.

“We are going to have sex all night, Dean!” he smirked. “You wanted to provoke my inner savage... well, you got it! We are going to fuck eleven times, and only on the twelfth will I remove the rings so we can both come.”

I moaned like an omega in heat.

“Remember”, he said, “you only have to say the word, and we can stop this. You know I love you too much to ever hurt you. But you wanted this, and if you still want it, then we are going to spend all night doing it!”

“Want”, I managed. “It.” I was quite proud that I could manage such long words.

He grinned, and knelt down, removing the dildo.

“Round Two!” he growled.

+~+~+

I woke up on Sunday morning feeling wonderfully sated, and was not surprised to look across as see that it was nearly eleven o'clock. We had reached Round Twelve somewhen in the early hours – my sense of time had vanished many rounds earlier – and I had come so violently that I had splattered the angel sword that Cas had hanging above his bed. His own eruption had nearly forced me off his with its power, and he had then mercifully untied me and spent some little time cleaning us both up before massaging my body and limbs back to normality. Now he was hugging me in his bed like we were alpha and omega together, and..... and I really wished that society had progressed to the point it could recognize this. But at least I had Cas.

“I asked Mrs. Harvelle to serve a late breakfast at twelve”, he muttered into my chest. “Lots of bacon. I need the energy.”

“Not last night you didn't”, I said tartly. “That was awesome. And next time you don't need to chloroform me first.”

He sighed and pulled himself up, getting up and pulling on his blue dressing-gown before looking coyly at me.

“Next time”, he said as he walked to the door, “you're leading!”

He left me in his room with a(nother) painful erection. Bastard, I thought. But I loved him anyway.

II  
   
Our next major case, which was to have a most dramatic conclusion, began in July, just under two months after the end of the Hammersmith case. It came with one of the most terrifying examples of the fairer sex we would ever come across (and I include the murderous Mrs. Agatha Etheridge in that list). I was ambivalent towards the suffragist movement – I thought propertied women would get the vote sooner or later, just as most propertied men had got it five years back – but it would take time. After all, it had been five and a half centuries between Simon de Montfort and the Great Reform Act. The poor old earl would have been spinning in his grave at the idea of females getting the vote!  
   
Having met Mrs. Emmeline Strong, however, I may have revised that opinion. To call the woman formidable would have been passing up the chance to use the adjective ‘terrifying’. She charged into our apartments in Baker Street like an old-time galleon heading into battle, and she was built like one, too. I swear the fireside chair creaked when she descended upon it, but fortunately it held. She stared sharply at Cas in silence for what must have been a whole minute before speaking.  
   
“You are short.”  
   
I coughed, trying to hide my shock. Although a couple of inches shorter than myself (most definitely not there, and get your mind out of the gutter!), Cas was in fact slightly above average height, although in fairness he often carried himself as a smaller man. And anyone would have been considered short when compared to the leviathan that had just descended upon us. 

To Cas’ eternal credit he held both his nerve and his manners.

“I am six foot and one-half inches in height, madam”, he said politely.  
   
“I prefer short men”, she said curtly. “Mr. Æsop was quite correct when he said that short men are wiser, even if my beta husband is all intelligence and no sense whatsoever. I need someone sensible for this matter. You’ll do.”  
   
I had seen all sorts of people try to persuade Cas to take their cases, using a whole range of different approaches. This was… very different. I noticed a slight turning up at the corner of his mouth, so he too was clearly amused by her forthrightness.  
   
“How may I be of service, madam?” he said. “At the moment the only things I know of your case is that your husband is an engineer, that you came through Paddington Station this morning, that you are careful with your money, and that you have minor sight problems.”  
   
That finally seemed to halt her progress, at least temporarily. She peered at him distrustfully.  
   
“Explain!” she barked, as if she were commanding a dog that had just performed an unexpected new trick.  
   
“Your ring is engraved twisted metal, clearly created by someone knowledgeable in the field of engineering”, Cas explained. “There is also no green mark on your finger, which implies that whoever made it knew to combine certain metals to prevent that. The engraving is not quite even, suggesting that it was not done in a jewellery shop; I would presume that your husband has a similar one himself. There are particles of fine soot on your wrap, and only the Great Western Railway uses Welsh coal, so you came through their station, Paddington. It had rained lightly in the past ten minutes, so your damp coat indicates you walked rather took a cab, even though Paddington is a good twenty minutes away from here. Hence you are careful with money. Finally, there are faint marks either side of your nose, which shows that you usually wear glasses, yet you have removed them before entering this room.”  
   
She snorted approvingly.  
   
“You’ll do!” she said. “I want you to investigate something which my husband says is not worth looking at, but my woman’s intuition says otherwise. Do you believe in such things, Mr. Novak?”

He smiled.  
   
“”I believe that, on a subconscious level, you may have seen something which triggered an alarm bell in your head without consciously knowing why”, he said. “Intuition is one name for such an experience. Pray tell me about your case, madam.”  
   
She sat back – I winced as the chair creaked ominously – and began.  
   
“My name is Mrs. Emmeline Strong. I live with my husband Edward at number fifty-two, St. Æthelred’s Street, Ealing. He is employed by that venerable institution the Great Western Railway Company as an engineer, working on designing railway structures. We have been married for twenty-five years, and are comfortably well-off.”  
   
“Some time ago the Railway decided it would open a new line to the town of Bolton St. John’s, in the county of Wiltshire. It would only be a few miles long, but part of it involved building a substantial bridge across the River Larch. There are three engineers at the office where Edward works, and all were asked to submit designs for the bridge. Of course Edward’s was the one they chose.”  
   
I smiled at the evident pride in her tone when she spoke of her husband.  
   
“Edward had to submit a detailed final plan at the end of last year”, she went on. “Work on the bridge was to start in autumn of this year, and Edward was surprised when he went into the general manager’s office one day last week to find his plan on the man’s table. Mercifully he succumbed to the sin of curiosity, and looked at it.”  
   
She paused.  
   
“This next part makes no sense at all, but I know from reading your friend's stories that the strangest things can sometimes assume more importance than might seem due, so I shall mention it. When Edward drew up the plans, he stayed on at work to finish them off rather than bring them home, most evenings. He remembered that there was a faint coal-marked thumb-print of his in the right-hand corner of the plans, which his superior – a most obnoxious alpha by the name of Mr. Cornelius Crane – kindly remarked on after he had submitted them, and refused to let him redraw them. Except when my husband looked at the same plans last week, the thumb-print was gone!”  
   
Cas pressed his long fingers together and eyed our visitor thoughtfully.  
   
“Why?” he said at last.  
   
“I beg your pardon?” she said.  
   
“Why would someone substitute one set of plans for another?"  
   
She hesitated.  
   
“I said that the three gentlemen in the office each submitted their own plans for that bridge”, she said, clearly being careful with her words. “One, Mr. Mark Filton, is a beta and quite friendly to dear Edward, and he has only just started there, but the other, Mr. Dorian Bellmoor, is a most unpleasant alpha. He is a distant cousin of Mr. Crane, and hopes to succeed him when he retires in a few years’ time. His failure to have his design selected went down very badly, according to my dear Edward.”  
   
“I see”, Cas said. “You believe that either Mr. Crane or Mr. Bellmoor has changed some of your husband’s figures so that the bridge will fail or even be unworkable.”  
   
She frowned.  
   
“That is the problem, Mr. Novak”, she said. “The general manager, a Mr. Angus MacKay, is the one who actually made the decision. He is an alpha and a little too prideful over certain matters, but I would swear that he is honest. And I know for a fact that he was there when Edward handed his design to Mr. Crane, and immediately took possession of it. I have thought on this, and I believe that someone of Mr. MacKay's experience would know if numbers on a drawing had been altered, which means the design must have been changed before Edward handed it in. Yet I have gone through what happened, and it puzzles me. That is why I have come to you.”  
   
“Perhaps you might tell me exactly what happened during that time”, Cas offered, “and I shall see what can be made of it.”  
   
She nodded, and extracted a large notebook from her copious bag. Putting on her reading-glasses, she began.

III  
   
“Edward finally finished the design at approximately five minutes past six on a Tuesday”, she said, “and handed it over to Mr. Crane and Mr. MacKay at nine o’clock the day after. That, according to my own calculations, left some fifteen hours in which the document could have been tampered with or replaced. Mr. Bellmoor was the only other employee at the office, and although he wandered over to look at Edward’s work from time to time, he was never left alone with it. My husband did not trust him, and quite rightly in my opinion. Edward normally leaves the documents at work locked in his draw, but Mr. Crane has a key to that draw, and Edward decided that for the last night, it might be advisable to bring them home.”  
   
I thought privately that the lady would have made an excellent witness. Or perhaps a terrifying police constable. If what they say about fear keeping people honest is true, she could easily have subdued a large part of London!  
   
“He came home on the train as usual, stopping only at the local store to pick up some iced biscuits I had asked him to purchase for me”, she continued. “He is quite capable in such things. He arrived at approximately eight o’clock, and we all sat down to dinner.”  
   
“One moment, please”, Cas put in. “You said ‘we all’. Was it not just yourself and your husband?”  
   
“We are blessed, if that is the right word, with two sons and one daughter”, she said. “Only the oldest son, Edmund, was with us that evening. Edwy was out at the cinema and staying overnight at a friend’s house in the city, and Audrey was still away at boarding school. There is usually one maid in the house, Berenice, but I had given her two weeks off because her mother was seriously ill, and her replacement only came in during the daytime. Paid leave; I expect my maid to work hard, and in return I treat her fairly.”  
   
Maybe there was some silk in the iron, I thought with a smile.  
   
“No cook?” Cas asked.  
   
“I am inordinately fond of cooking myself, so I do not see the need”, she said firmly. “If a woman cannot keep a man fed, then she should not keep a man. Edward agrees with me fully in that.”  
   
If he knows what’s good for him, I thought with a smile. I caught a warning glance from Cas, and blushed. Was I that obvious?  
   


Cas nodded very sligthtly. Apparently I was.

“Where were the plans located after your husband came home?” he asked.  
   
“In the house all the time”, she said. “Edward placed them on his desk when he came in, and there they stayed until the next day. Mr. Crane called on his way in to work – that was most unusual, as it is not really on his way – but he was not left alone with the plans, as I made sure Edmund stayed in the room with him when I went to call Edward down.”

“When you were at dinner, did anything unusual happen?”

She frowned.

“There was the telegram”, she said. “A boy came, and Edmund went to see to it, but it was in error. For a Mr. Edgar Strong, from his wife, apparently.”  
   
Cas nodded as if he had been expecting that piece of news. There was a strange silence between them.  
   
“You are aware, madam”, he said slowly, “that if I decide to investigate a case, then I will pursue it to the end. Even if the outcome may not be to my client’s liking?”  
   
She held his gaze. I stared between them. There was something going on here.  
   
“Edward is innocent”, she said firmly. “I would stake my life on it. I know from your friend's books - over-dramatic, but that sort of thing sells, I suppose - that you follow justice first and the law second. If I had wanted the law, I would have gone to a lawyer or the police. I want justice, and I am prepared to pay for it.”  
   
“I think given the circumstances, I would rather discuss payment once the case is settled”, Cas said mysteriously. “I also think it would be of use for me to speak with your son Edmund.”  
   
“He is a clerk at Dunston’s Bank in Aldwych”, she said. “It is in Montressor Street. He is working today, and they close at four.”  
   
Cas nodded.  
   
“Then the doctor and I must take up no more of your valuable time”, he said firmly. “If you are so good as to leave a card, I shall communicate any findings to you as soon as I have them.”  
   
She nodded, placed a card on the fireside table, rose to her feet and sailed from the room. I let out a breath I had not even been aware I was holding.  
   
“If you do find a criminal, you should let them have ten minutes with that lady!” I said forcefully. “I think they would end up begging to be taken away to the safety of Newgate!”

He smiled at me.  
   
+~+~+  
   
It was nearly lunch-time, so Cas suggested we take a cab to my favourite restaurant in Trafalgar Square, and then proceed to nearby Aldwych. I enjoyed my meal, though I did not see what young Mr. Edmund Strong could hope to add to his mother’s excellent testimony.  
   
Dunston’s Bank was a small but elegant building, and judging from the people we saw inside, they clearly catered to the exclusive end of the market. We were introduced to the manager, a dapper middle-aged alpha called Mr. Buckland-Woods who, on finding out who Cas was, looked like he was going to need my professional services sooner rather than later. Fortunately Cas soon calmed him down.  
   
“In pursuance of an investigation which, of course, has no connection to such a venerable institution as this”, he said smoothly, “I need to ask Mr. Edmund Strong one or two questions. Of course I am sure you would rather I do this in the privacy of one of your back rooms than over the counter, in front of everybody?”  
   
Mr. Buckland-Woods swallowed at the very idea, and managed to turn even paler.

“Indeed”, he said weakly.  
   
“I would, however, appreciate your own opinion of the young gentleman”, Cas said. “I have never met him myself, and of course, you know him.”  
   
The manager swallowed nervously.  
   
“Be assured that anything you say will be treated in the strictest confidence”, Cas said reassuringly.  
   
He hesitated again before speaking.  
   
“Mr. Strong fulfills his job quite.... adequately”, he said, “but…. I don’t really like to say, but I have reason to suspect he does not handle his own finances as well as he does the bank’s.”  
   
“What makes you say that?” I asked.  
   
Again, a hesitation.  
   
“He seems to be very free with his money at staff functions”, he said carefully. “I have had the, uh, 'pleasure' of meeting his mother once, and….. well, I came away with the impression that she was not the sort to provide him with a generous allowance.” 

He smiled a little. 

“You must understand, gentlemen, that in the word of banking we often have to rely on our instinct as to whether the men we have dealings with are completely honest. With young Mr. Strong, my instinct tends towards the negative. Yet in all fairness I should add that his work here has been quite satisfactory.”  
   
“I must thank you for being so candid with me”, Cas said. “Would you please arrange for us to see him now?”  
   
IV  
   
I must say that my first impression of Edmund Strong was not a favourable one. I could only assume he took after his father, for there was nothing of his formidable mother in his appearance. He had clearly been informed as to who we were, and his demeanour was one of polite curiosity.  
   
“You wished to speak with me, gentlemen?” he asked.  
   
“I did have one particular question I wished to ask you”, Cas said. “Who was it?”  
   
The young man looked puzzled.  
   
“Who was what, sir?”  
   
Cas sighed impatiently.  
   
“You try my patience, young sir”, he said with a surprising degree of sharpness. “If you will not deal with me, then I will advise your mother to lay the matter before the police. I should inform you that in the circumstances, they may decide to push for a charge of wilful murder.”  
   
The young man went pale.  
   
“Murder?” he blurted out.  
   
“Mr. Crane, or Mr. Bellmoor?” Cas asked bluntly.  
   
For a moment I thought he would remain silent, but finally he muttered ‘Cornelius’ before slumping into his folded arms. Cas stood up.  
   
“I shall give you twenty-four hours”, he said, looking at his watch. “From now. At the end of that time, I will advise your mother to go to the police. I hope that we understand each other.”  
   
He swept from the room, and I scurried after him.  
   
+~+~+  
   
“But how could you know that the son was involved?” I asked as we were being driven back to Baker Street. “There was no motive.”  
   
“The motive was one of the oldest in the book”, Cas smiled. “Love of money. Mrs. Strong kept her son on a tight leash, but he clearly likes the good things in life. Mr. Crane knew that, and he wanted his cousin Mr. Bellmoor to succeed him when he retired. The bridge competition was a setback, but also an opportunity.”  
   
“How so?” I asked.  
   
“Mr. Crane knows that changing one or two figures on the design will render the bridge a failure”, he said, “or perhaps even cause it to collapse when a train passes over it, like the Tay Bridge did at the end of the Musgrave case. But he also knows that someone as experienced as Mr. MacKay would spot any changes, so a switch must be effected before the plans reach him. He already possesses a key to Mr. Strong's desk at work, fo which I believe Mr. Strong was unaware, so he lets that fact slip, As he had hoped, the man responds by taking the plans home 'for safe keeping'. That evening, a fake telegram, sent by Mr. Crane, enables the son to excuse himself from dinner and make the switch. It was his bad luck that he did not notice the faint thumb-print his father had left in one corner, and that his father later mentioned that fact to his wife.”

“Poor Mrs. Strong”, I said. “She will be heartbroken.”  
   
He looked at me in surprise.  
   
“Oh Dean!” he said with a sigh.  
   
“Pardon?” He was looking at me almost condescendingly.  
   
“Mrs. Strong is fully aware of her eldest son’s perfidy”, Cas said calmly. “If there were to be a police investigation, her poor husband would be mortified by all the publicity. No, Edmund Strong will flee abroad somewhere, and we can but hope that he is considerate enough to inform his confederate of the collapse of their scheme, so he joins him. There will be a little publicity, but hopefully it will soon pass. People's attention spans are short these days.”  
   
+~+~+  
   
Cas was right. Both Mr. Edmund Strong and Mr. Cornelius Crane left the country that same evening, and were never heard of again. The British police decided not to pursue either of them, bearing in mind the circumstances of the potential crime. Mr. Edward Strong was indeed affected by the ‘loss’ of his son and heir, but he was consoled by being promoted to the position held by one of the men who had tried to ruin him, and his bridge over the Larch proved a great success. 

+~+~+

Our next case involved a dog. And a certain Mr. Marcus Crowley.....

 


End file.
